


Claimed by Fire

by Arselle (Ellesra), cupofcoffin



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Branding, Burning, Degradation, Drugging, Drugs, Forced heterosexual sex, M/M, Muddled relationship dynamics, Non/Dub-Con, Power Exchange, Punishment, Role Reversal, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Slavery, Somnophilia, collaring, happy/positive ending, spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellesra/pseuds/Arselle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofcoffin/pseuds/cupofcoffin
Summary: Sokka’s posture is perfect, demure but attentive. His head is tilted down, but his eyes crane up to take inventory of the man who just entered. This is the Fire Lord? He’s tall and rail-thin, exaggerated by the angle, and can’t be much older than Sokka. His face is cast in shadow, but Sokka can still make out the shiny pink outline of the distinctive scar that had marked the portraits that hung in all the ships and chambers he’d so far passed through. Actually, it’s not so bad — not nearly as frightening as the bright red disfiguration he’d seen illustrated.“First, a gift. A tribute from the Southern Water Tribe.”  Fengwei doesn’t make any gesture toward Sokka, because Sokka is the only thing in this room that doesn’t already belong to Zuko. Only for a few more minutes, surely. “A Water Tribe noble,” he tacks on, and Sokka has to slam his throat shut to quell the bemused snort that threatens to bubble out of him. It’s funny, in a way. Maybe not ha ha funny, but. You know. Funny.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We know how difficult this topic is, and hope that it comes across as respectful and well thought-out. Beware the tags!

Sokka’s feet are starting to go numb.

The rug he’s kneeling on is plush red fur, but he can still feel the hard wood floor underneath as he traces the intricately embroidered edge with his eyes. It’s hard to make out, exactly — it’s almost the same color, but metallic, and it changes in the flickering light of the meeting room.

He’d change positions if he could, but the general who brought him in is lounging in a chair beside him and carefully monitoring his posture. Who knows, after all, when the Fire Lord will arrive. They’re both facing the door, but he’s eyeing Sokka like any other spoil of war. Intently. Pridefully. Hungrily.

Sokka is used to the eyes on him by now, to the point where he can almost ignore how sheer and ineffectual the robe he’s been dressed in is. He’s already been appraised several times by different nameless officials, but he hasn’t actually passed hands yet. He also hasn’t yet been used. He was brought here as an appeasement... a gift.

He’d technically chosen this. That’s something he reminds himself often. Back home, he was... well, the word didn’t translate perfectly, but prince was close. He was important, a warrior and chiefson. When offered a fat sum of money and liberty for his family in place of his life among them, it had been an easy choice. Less easy was the choice not to tell them until it was too late.

The collar around his throat feels restrictive despite being custom fitted. Technically, that was a gift for his new owner as well. He reaches a hand up to tug the soft leather away from his neck, but it’s smacked away by the general’s baton. He looks up, trying to maintain a neutral face. He knows to be silent.

“Don’t move,” the man says gruffly. “He should be here soon.”

Sokka is awarded a final warning strike with the general’s baton — not hard enough to bruise, of course — as the clicking of shoes-on-stone comes to a halt outside the ornate chamber door.

The heavy hinges barely break a whisper when the door swings open, spilling light into the dimly lit room, and General Fengwei stands to bow deeply. “Fire Lord Zuko. Good morning,” he addresses.

Sokka’s posture is perfect, demure but attentive. His head is tilted down, but his eyes crane up to take inventory of the man who just entered. This is the Fire Lord? He’s tall and rail-thin, exaggerated by the angle, and can’t be much older than Sokka. His face is cast in shadow, but Sokka can still make out the shiny pink outline of the distinctive scar that had marked the portraits that hung in all the ships and chambers he’d so far passed through. Actually, it’s not so bad — not nearly as frightening as the bright red disfiguration he’d seen illustrated. 

“First, a gift. A tribute from the Southern Water Tribe.” Fengwei doesn’t make any gesture toward Sokka, because Sokka is the only thing in this room that doesn’t already belong to Zuko. Only for a few more minutes, surely. “A Water Tribe noble,” he tacks on, and Sokka has to slam his throat shut to quell the bemused snort that threatens to bubble out of him. It’s funny, in a way. Maybe not ha ha funny, but. You know. Funny.

“Good morning, General,” the Fire Lord greets in return. Sokka sees the golden eyes settle on him and quickly redirects his gaze back down to that metallic embroidery in the carpet.  
  
There is a poignant pause, and then the Fire Lord’s voice rings out once more. “A tribute, you say?”  
  
Sokka has a hard time reading the tone, whether it’s angry or intrigued or just non-caring.

There is a smirk growing on the general’s face, Sokka can see it even from here. But it’s one of pride and patriotism, at least mostly. Sokka looks back to the floor to hide the way his lip curls sourly into a snarl.

“He offered himself up for sale,” Fengwei admits with a huff of almost-laughter, “we didn’t have to take him. It was a hefty price. Paid to his family, of course. But with no candidate for Fire Lady in the picture...”

He lets the accusation hang for a moment.

“Well. All that pent up energy has to go somewhere, doesn’t it?”

It sounds an awful lot like an insult, and Sokka tenses as another silence envelops the room.  
  
What happens if the Fire Lord won’t take him?

"What a generous gift. I'm sure we'll find some use for him.”

Suddenly there’s someone scurrying into the room, taking a moment to bow to the Fire Lord and the General before walking over to Sokka. “Come with me,” the young boy mutters, and walks back out of the room.

Sokka looks up to the general for permission, before realizing with a sinking feeling that that wasn’t who owned him anymore. He glances instead at the Fire Lord and catches his cold amber eye. Then he stands. Oh 

And he stumbles.

He can’t feel either foot from sitting on them, or where they touch the floor. He has his gaze on the man in front of him and he just... miscalculates. It’s not bad, he doesn’t fall, but it does throw off his poised demeanor. He looks back, mortified, before scurrying after the other servant.

"Would you care for some refreshment, General?" The Fire Lord says, and isn’t even looking Sokka’s way as he exits the room.

“Something to drink, please,” General Fengwei says just as he walks out of hearing range.

Sokka doesn’t really know where he’s walking. He keeps revisiting his stumble, over and over, playing out scenes in which his discretion is punished as soon as the Fire Lord has him alone. Would his new owner be rough, or...?

“Are you actually Water Tribe?” the servant suddenly asks. “I thought there wasn’t any more of you guys left!”

“What?” He looks up, disoriented. Probably better to stop him wondering, anyway. He’s especially glad now to have a guide... this wing is unfamiliar, and he knows he couldn’t navigate his way out alone if he tried. “What? No I — I mean, I am. We... there’s still some of us, just...” He tries to shoot the kid a glare, to say ‘there’d be more of us if your people hadn’t wiped out mine’. Even as angry as he is though, right now it’s outweighed by mourning. Not to mention, yelling even at another servant could cost him dearly, and it could also cost his family. Instead he just sighs. “Not so many, now.”

He walks in silence a little longer. Sokka ponders his family. His old home. They must be furious, he thinks. Or maybe they’re just sad. A little part of him, the funny part that’s been silenced for weeks by constant surveillance and discipline tries to joke that maybe they’re glad to have him gone... but it falls flat in his mouth, fizzles and tastes like bile.

“What is the Fire Lord like?” He asks at last. He doesn’t know if his guide is going to have the experience to answer him how he means it... probably not? But maybe he can speak to his temper, or the types of punishment that Sokka should prepare himself for when he reaches the Fire Lord’s private chambers.

The boy looks around pointedly before answering.

"I mean, I haven't served under anyone else. But... You need to watch out for his temper. Oh, and..." the kid pauses ominously, once more glancing around like the walls might be watching. "You have to avoid the Princess. If she finds you she will probably kill you." This last part is said in a low whisper.

 _Princess_ ?  
  
Then the servant’s voice goes back to normal, like they weren’t just talking about Sokka getting killed. "Oh hey, were you really living in the ice? How did you not freeze to death?"

Sokka has to pressure himself to keep moving, to not stop and question the boy face to face. Best this way anyway, he reasons, reeling, as he can feel a hot blush sweeping his cheeks. His voice drops to a whisper to match his guide’s tone, suddenly even more unsure of his place in all this. He racks his brain for the little understanding of monarchic structures he has. “Oh... I didn’t — the general said he didn’t... does he have a... wife? Or?” And the unspoken question — am I being put in a married man’s bed?

He realizes too late that another question had been laid out for him. When it processes, it actually makes him laugh. That surprises him, he hasn’t actually laughed openly in... in a long time now. “Freeze to death? No! We.. we have furs and tents and igloos and... and fire? You’ve heard of fire?”

"Pri- She is not his wife! She's his sister, second-born of the Phoenix King! Don't you know anything? And of course I’ve heard of _fire_." The kid looks disgruntled and insulted at once, and Sokka scoffs. The words do bring with them a wave of relief. It’s a gentler feeling than he expects in the hard, sharp corridors of the fire palace. It doesn’t actually mean much to him, of course, if there’s still a practical risk of getting straight-up murdered by a princess. And if he had been married, it’s not like he’d have had a say in what that meant anyway. Still, not causing some kind of imperial divorce sounds like a better plan, and Sokka has to admit to himself that he prefers the idea of not being the official sex toy of an already-married man.

As much as he can really prefer anything about the situation.

The door they finally stop at is still more ornate than anything Sokka would expect of living quarters, but it’s definitely simpler than the ones he’s seen in other parts of the palace. “Is this the place then?”

"This is the servant wing," the boy says, and shoulders open the heavy oak door.

"Aya!" he shouts once inside. A woman down the hall scowls at him, but opens a door to send the call on.

A woman comes through that door seconds later, her steps brisk as she walks towards them. As she draws close, she holds out a hand and smacks the back of the kid’s head. "Toro! What have I told you about coming in here shouting?"

He rubs his head, and looks away. " 'pologies, ma'am."

The woman shakes her head before her stern gaze settles on the newcomer instead. Her eyes do a quick once-over of his attire and looks, before settling on his face.

"Who might you be, then?"

Sokka straightens up at the assertive voice. Now _this_ lady seems like someone who makes sense. Her eyes are harsh, but she looks sturdy and in charge, and that puts Sokka in a little more familiar territory.

“My name is Sokka,” he says, and makes as subtle a motion to cover himself as he can manage. “Of the Southern Water Tribe. I’m, uh, new?”

He looks around the quarters. There are a few servants shuffling about, all dressed fairly well (though noticeably more modestly than Sokka is), and most carrying trays or carts of one thing or another. He wonders if some of them are paid staff, or if they‘re all owned slaves.

And, if they are owned, who do they each belong to?

"Alright. You can call me Aya. Or ma'am, when in company," she tells him. Her gaze falls on his attire again, and she clicks her tongue in dismay.

"You're the gift that General strode in here with, then?"

Sokka nods, trying not to sink into embarrassment. He’s been naked now in front of plenty of people, men and women, on his way to the Fire Lord’s possession... but never, he realizes, by someone who was in a similar position. A peer? Could he call her a peer? She was obviously his superior here, but... maybe that’s why he felt a little more shy now. In the company of servants. They were probably more likely to see him as a person in a humiliating position than as a very lewd trophy.

“Yes, ma’am. Uh, Aya, ma’am.” He hesitates, then tacks on, “should I be... doing something? To help out, I mean? Or... I mean, I don’t have any stuff to set down, but is there somewhere I’m supposed to go?”

Her brows rise momentarily before she shakes her head. "No. What position you'll have will be for the Fire Lord to decide. You were clearly intended to be his bedwarmer, but it's hard to say whether he'll want to just put you in with the rest of the servants." She gives him another once-over before turning and waving for Sokka to follow. "He hasn't shown any inclination before, but who knows."

Aya brings him over to one of the bedchambers. The room is small, with four bunk beds set along the wall.

"This one is free," she tells him, motioning to one of the top bunks. "This is where you'll sleep whenever you aren't required elsewhere."

Sokka watches her go. She’s probably extremely busy, and he appreciates her helping to fill him in. Her gruff straightforwardness, oddly, had made him feel a little more at home, and he swore for a second he’d seen something like softness or even humor there too.

He climbs into his bunk. It’s relatively early in the day, but obviously nobody wants him elsewhere yet, and he supposes he shouldn’t exhaust himself before he’s called anyway. If he is called? There’d been a low rumble of despair in him when Aya said the Fire Lord hasn’t... what did she say? Shown any inclination before? If he turned out not to want Sokka after all... would he be sent back? Killed? What would it mean for his family, if they’d been paid for a gift that the Fire Lord returned?

He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t like sitting still. He’s restless, but exhausted too, and this is one of the better beds he’s had the luxury of laying on since his departure from home. He has no idea how to get around the palace, and even if he did, he doesn’t know what would be allowed. Probably very little. He’s also hungry, but for once that doesn’t take priority over all his other anxieties and aches.

And there’s something else there, too. He knows what he’s supposed to be here for, and forced or not he can’t stop thinking about the euphemistic way Aya’d said it — “bedwarmer.” It sends a shameful little shiver through him. He hadn’t gotten a good look at his master, in truth, but that didn’t stop vague images from presenting themselves to him against his will. Suppose the Fire Lord did take an interest in him... what would he demand? What would Sokka have to be prepared for? It’s not a pleasant thought, but it stirs something in him. This is the first time since the arrangement was finalized that he’s had a moment of anything adjacent to solitude, and between that and the everpresent dread, he realizes he hasn’t really done anything for... almost a month. He’d barely even really thought about it til now. He takes a deep breath.

No, best not to. It isn’t exactly a sexy situation, and he’s already unsure of his ability to get it up at all. It might help his mood a bit, give him a dose of serotonin to get him through the day, but honestly so would a nap and a bath and a meal, and if he can get even one of those under his belt it’ll... it’ll at least be something. Besides, better not to make a habit of that on the top bunk.

He rolls onto his side to stare at the wall instead, until sleep overtakes him.

People come and go from the chamber where Sokka stays, some people getting up from bed, others only now having the time to get some shut-eye.

By the time someone comes for him, the sun is already high in the sky, the warmth of outside penetrating through the thick walls.

Aya is the one who comes, and she's carrying a bucket of steaming water in one hand and a bundle of clothing in another.

"Come on Water Tribe, chop chop," she says, and there's grumbling from the two other servants who are also sleeping in the room. Aya lets the bucket go onto the floor, and puts the bundle of clothes on the empty bunk below Sokka's.

"You're to get cleaned up and put on some proper clothes. Can't have you looking like you're from a lowtown brothel," Aya says. She places herself off to the side, arms crossed and leaning against one of the solid bedposts.

“Huh?” Sokka bolts up so fast that he’d have bashed his head on the ceiling, were he any taller. He almost falls out of the bunk, but steadies himself. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen fully asleep, but now he feels heavy and groggy and warm. “Hrrgh, y-yes ma’am!”

He’s a tangle of sheer silk as he scrambles to descend the little wooden ladder, and by the time he hits the floor his sleeve is tucked into itself strangely and his collar is on nearly-backwards. 

He peers into the steaming water, then looks over his shoulder at the clothes folded a little haphazardly on the bottom cot. They’re shiny red and gold, lightweight, and there is still an amount of thin translucent silk. He’ll have to learn the difference between tasteful and lewd in Fire Nation eyes, he bemoans. Then he glances up at Aya, and suddenly he’s awash in embarrassment again as he finally processes what she’s talking about. 

“O-oh!” His hands shoot down to cover himself. “I didn’t realize. Where should I...?” He assumes she doesn’t mean here, but he also isn’t quite sure what’s expected when she says cleaned up. Certainly, given the situation, some of that ought to be private?

Aya frowns and tilts her head to the side, regarding Sokka. "Just clean yourself roughly. We do have bathhouses, but this is quicker. We don't want to leave him waiting," she tells him, an impatient look on her face as she eyes him pointedly.

"Now, there's some things you should know. You should not talk to him about his family, unless he prompts it himself. I assume he will not want to talk about his work or politics, so steer clear of that. Also, I do not want to hear you complaining to other people. If you've got any complaints, you come to me or keep it to yourself. Got it?"

“R-right,” he says, kneeling to dunk his hands in the water. It’s warm and lightly fragrant, and he starts with his face.

“What am I supposed to call him?” He asks between the handfuls of water he splashes on his face, scrubbing the dry, nap-tired skin around his eyes. “And what does he like?”

It’s admittedly a purposefully vague question, and while Sokka doubts Aya can speak to any intimate preferences of the Fire Lord’s, he’s happy for any information she can give. He sheepishly slips off the robe he was sent in, looking to Aya for approval as well as answers, and plucks a sopping rag from the bucket to begin washing his chest and underarms.

She looks thoughtful for a moment, staring at the grains in the wooden bedposts.

"Just call him Fire Lord Zuko until otherwise prompted," she starts. "From when he was young, Fire Lord Zuko enjoyed theater, and animals, and swordfighting. Now, I do not know. He was gone from the palace for some time, and when he came back he had changed."

"He tends to forget to eat and sleep, and it might be in your best interest to remind him if he forgets. He is more mellow when he's remembered to take care of himself."

That gives Sokka pause, and he has to remind himself that he’s on a schedule and not just linger where he is, twisted comically to wash his back. He keeps moving, but there’s still a rush of... well, it can’t be tenderness, can it? But it’s something unexpectedly soft, thinking about reminding the Fire Lord to take care of himself. “Yeah,” he mutters, rag moving down between his thighs, “I can do that.”

He glances at the other servants as they try to sleep. They’re not looking, which is a relief. Aya isn’t either, not that Sokka is under any illusion that he’s someone with the luxury of privacy. He’s already been checked over to assess his hygiene, and he knows he’ll be fine until he has the opportunity to wash more thoroughly later, but he swipes the rag quickly over his soft cock and along his ass anyway. It feels nice... not particularly good, but the warm water is a comfort.

He stands and doesn’t waste time before unfolding the bundle of clothes. The satiny fabric gleams in the midday sunlight, and it’s cut in a way that will showcase his body without him apparently looking like an actual whore. Not that he doesn’t know that that’s... exactly what he is now.

The sleeves are long and embroidered, but sheer enough to display his honed muscle and... hmm, now that Sokka thinks about it, also sheer enough that concealing anything within them would prove impossible. The pants are thin and cool, and feel like water flowing over his shaven legs. He ties the cloth belt around his waist, smoothing out the fabric that hangs down over his hips, then takes a deep breath, looking to Aya. “Okay. I’m... okay. Let’s go.”

She looks him over.. With a brisk nod, she turns to show him out the door.

Leading the way, she brings him down more long corridors and empty hallways. They only meet one servant on the way, and she is clearly averting her gaze from them as they walk past.

In the end they come in front of an intricately detailed entrance, two double doors leading into the living chambers of the Fire Lord himself. Straight back, head held high, Aya knocks.

"Enter," comes a voice from inside, and she does. Sokka follows, feeling his heart hammering behind his eardrums as he stays a bit behind Aya, pose mirroring hers.

The first chamber is a sitting room crowned with fire, though most of it is currently unlit. In the middle of the room is a pair of couches, surrounding a low table. On one of those couches sits Fire Lord Zuko, still dressed for a visit that ended hours ago.

"Sokka of the Water Tribe," the Fire Lord greets. He gestures to the sofa opposite him. "Sit."

Aya bows deeply, and leaves them without further notice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! A shorter chapter this time, and content warnings for this chapter are posted in the end notes.

Zuko's heart is hammering in his chest, and he hides it under a mask of indifference as he sits leaning back against cushions that are too soft, eyes kept on the man's face.

He lets the silence linger for a few moments longer, pondering where to start. They are in private of course, and Zuko doesn't have to start in the places that are strictly polite. He can ask the questions he's wondered since the General first arrived.

"Did General Fengwei speak the truth, that you came here willingly?"   
  
The servant bows his head, and it’s only then Zuko notices that he hadn’t to start with. The Water Tribe man had looked straight at him, looked him in the eye, and it was strange enough that Zuko hadn’t even immediately noticed something wrong.

“He did. I agreed to come, and he said my family in the Southern Water Tribe would be well cared for as payment.” A slight pause, and Zuko watches the man’s expression as he says, “It is an honor to serve you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

He can't help but keep staring, wondering what on earth he's going to do with this man. This person, who apparently sold  _ himself _ to slavery. Or servitude, at the very least.

"Ah," he answers, for a lack of anything better. "And what... Are you expecting to serve me with?"

He knows, of course, the expectation. While he supposes that to some, being a concubine or companion is no different than baking bread or making beds, he finds the thought disconcerting. To use a person like he'd use a hairbrush, as though they were merely a tool. Zuko knows what is expected, of him and of this "Sokka", and yet...

“I— huh?” Sokka sputters, before clearly gathering himself. Zuko can see a dark blush spreading across his face. “With... with my body, Fire Lord Zuko. Sir. However you want me.”

Zuko raises his brows skeptically.

"And what do you have to offer, that any other servant in the Palace can't?" he asks, and observes how Sokka stutters and fumbles and in general doesn't act anything like what Zuko expects of him. He is not trying to be cruel. He did have suspicions however, and Sokka is quickly disassembling them without even knowing he's doing so.

Or so Zuko assumes, anyway.

Sokka blinks and looks up at him again, eyes wet and panicked. This time, though, the servant holds his gaze.

“Dedication.  _ Devotion _ . I  _ want _ to be here.” There is something intense in his gaze, something almost desperate, and Zuko feels a stab of pity. He links his hands. It looks like he’s pleading. “Please, Fire Lord Zuko, let me prove myself to you.”

Well. That does not entirely dissuade him of his suspicion. There is no way to tell for sure. Not until he knows the Water Tribe man better.

"You can call me Zuko, when we're alone." He offers, because Agni knows he's tired of hearing the full three words all the time. Even with his short name, it does not exactly roll off the tongue. "I'll also expect you not to interrupt me while I work."

He gets up, starting to walk towards the next room, where his office is.

Halfway there, he turns back again. Sokka has already slumped a little on the couch by the time he does, though he sits up enough to retain propriety as soon as Zuko catches him. "Oh, and if you are spying on me for General Fengwei or anyone else, I'll make sure both you and your family meet an early end."

He keeps walking into his office. In a split second decision, he decides to leave the door open.

“Thank you,” he hears Sokka call from the other room, only just loud enough to be heard, and there’s an unexpected element of tearfulness. “Thank you, Zuko. I’ll let you work. Is there somewhere you’d like me, for now?”

"Do whatever you'd like," he calls back, already sat back down at his desk. He stares dispassionately at the papers in front of him, and gets to work. There  _ must _ be a way that they can more properly distribute the harvest without robbing the smaller villages completely. He just needs to figure out how, and more importantly, how to convince the council.

Zuko can already feel his headache growing as he starts reading through the fourth proposal he's gotten on the matter. The pile waiting for him looks impossibly big, especially when he knows it's mostly nobles suggesting further taxing of the workers.

It’s not long before Zuko hears Sokka moving. The sound is not enough to disturb, but enough that Zuko can tell he’s not trying to be sneaky. He hears clean bare feet padding intentionally, then sees him out of the corner of his eye as he leans in the doorway. Zuko furrows his brow and ignores him -- he’s read the same paragraph four times, and is fully prepared to just set the whole pile on fire.

“Uh, Zuko? Can I bring you any lunch? Have you had water?”

Thankfully, hearing Sokka speak derails him from that notion.

"What?" he asks, frowning as he glances up at the servant. He had almost forgotten what Sokka was there for. It’s almost disconcerting, how easily he had ignored the foreign presence in his quarters. He rubs at his brow, and registers what's been said. Lunch? "Do you even know where the kitchens are?" he says, perhaps a tad irritably. He leans back in his chair, and takes a moment to observe Sokka's appearance. He hadn't really been looking when Sokka first came in; now he can see the way the silk drapes delicately over his frame, showing off his broad shoulders but hiding enough that he's not practically naked.

He's an attractive man. Zuko understands why he was chosen, while it also brings along a sense of annoyance.

He watches Sokka smile a bit, just the tiniest humored twist of the mouth. “Ah, no, that was going to be my next question. That, and... what do you like to eat?”

With a roll of his eyes, Zuko gets out of his chair. "I could do with a walk anyway," he excuses himself, while secretly glad for a reason to not stare at the piles of parchment any longer. He strides past Sokka, and leads the way out of the chambers. Sokka follows in tow.

The slave bounds forward a little as they walk, not far enough to put himself in equal stride, but close enough to converse. “Sooo. Nice... place. It’s very... big?”

Zuko glances at Sokka, and a hint of a smile shows on his lips as he answers. "Much too big, in my opinion. It used to be less empty." He threads his fingers together in front of him, sleeves fitting together seamlessly. "How big was your village, when you left?" he asks, though he knows the numbers by heart. He gets the reports, after all. Yet knowing a number on a page isn't the same as hearing it directly from someone who was there. He knows this well enough from his travels. Even if he hasn't left the Fire Palace in years.

Sokka speaks softly when he answers -- heavy, almost mournful. Zuko easily gets why. 

“Not very...” he admits. “Most of our adults fought in the war, so when I left there were probably... maybe only a hundred people in my village? There are other villages too that make up the South Pole, and my dad was a part of the greater tribe counsel. He’s the chief of our village, and my sister is sort of... apprenticing under him to take that role on when he gets old. We were going to share it, but... yeah.”

_ Water Tribe Noble indeed _ , Zuko thinks with a faint bit of humor, as well as a tinge of sadness. For a chief or the heir of a chief to have sacrificed himself for the village, things must truly have been dire.

"You were going to be chief of your tribe," Zuko says, sounding contemplative. Then he glances at Sokka again, a thought striking him suddenly. "Are you a waterbender?"

Not that he'd expect Sokka to tell him if he were. It would be his one weapon in this foreign place, and he'd do well to keep it a secret.

Then again, there weren't supposed to be any water benders left in the Water Tribes. The element was said to have been wiped off the maps after the fall of the northern tribes, just as airbending had been long ago. 

Zuko had heard some rumors, however, but those were best left to speculation only.

Sokka laughs, a brief chirp of something that’s almost lighthearted, but tinged with something darker too. “Hah. No, I’m not. Maybe I should lie and tell you I am? But no.” He seems, briefly, to lose himself in thought, though Zuko can’t make out what he might be thinking. “The last waterbender in the South Pole died when I was a kid.” He says. “My... my mom.”

Zuko nods. "The Southern Raiders," he confirms. They turn a corner, and Zuko stops.

"The kitchen is that door to the left. Just ask for Korma, and tell her you're bringing the Fire Lord lunch. She'll know what to prepare."

His eyes hover on the kitchen door, before he glances back at Sokka. "I'll be in the gardens."

Resuming his measured walking pace, he leaves Sokka behind at the kitchens. It wouldn't be proper for him to go to the kitchens himself. He remembers a childhood where he'd sneaked in there, stolen buns with cream or cheese and other treats, and delivered them smiling to Azula who was leaning against the wall outside. Waiting for him to do all the work.

Things had hardly changed that much. He was still doing all the work, and Azula was reaping the benefits. Not that she cared to admit it.

\----

In the gardens, Zuko sits down at the bench set by the side of the duck pond. The turtleducks had gone some time during his banishment. Now, fish swim in lazy circles as they bob down to the bottom of the pond and eat whatever food they might find there.

It's not the same, he thinks with a touch of melancholy.

Sokka’s there suddenly, clearing his throat softly. Zuko glances over at his new servant. “Lunch time,” the Water Tribesman announces, approaching direct and slow. Like he’s approaching an animal.

Zuko is fascinated at how bold Sokka is already being. It also feels oddly refreshing.

Perhaps, he thinks, it comes from the lack of an actual hierarchy in the Water Tribes. Either that, or this is simply how the man always acts, even towards his own chief.

Turning his face towards the sun, soaking up Agni's light, Zuko waits for Sokka to serve him. But when Sokka lays the tray beside Zuko on the bench, he seats himself instead on its other side to look out over the pond.

“I’ve never seen fish like that before,” he says, picking up the pitcher to pour Zuko a glass. “They’re so colorful. What are they called?”

Zuko stares at Sokka with wide eyes, his surprise fully visible on his face. "What are you  _ doing _ ," he says, his voice going towards a hiss at the end. Quickly he glances around, but he can't see anyone. "Get off the bench before someone sees you," he hisses, a frown twisting his face.

Sokka hops up from the bench so quick that there’s a split second where Zuko thinks he might careen into the pond, but he doesn’t. He backs up fast, putting several feet’s distance between himself and the Fire Lord, and drops into the lowest bow he can without actually getting on his knees.

“I-I’m sorry,” the man splutters, “I wasn’t thinking. Please...” He’s shaking. Instead of their proper bowing posture, his hands just tremble where they’re tucked into his chest. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Fire Lord Zuko. I... Where... where should I be? Should I… Should I give you your privacy now?”

Zuko is severely tempted to drag his hand through his hair and just walk away. With a sigh, he knows it won't do.

Leaning forward, he reaches out and grasps the top of the servant's neck, right above where the collar sits snugly to his skin. He lets his thoughts fade to the background as his hand heats up threateningly against the man's neck.

"If this was my sister or my father, you'd already be dead." He tells the man, his tone carefully blank of the raging emotion inside of him. "If anyone saw this happening, they'd expect me to do the same." The hand heats up a bit more, now just on the side of scalding hot.

"Kneel," he says, smoke escaping his mouth as he does so. All those constricted emotions are an inferno inside of him, just waiting to be released, just waiting to  _ burn _ .

Sokka gasps quietly, eyes squeezing shut. He looks like he wants to cry, and Zuko restricts his sense of pity, too. He kneels at Zuko’s feet, slower than he ought to, and lays his hands on his thighs, bunching then in the dark fabric. It brings him closer, and he speaks in stutters as he wriggles weakly against Zuko’s burning palm. “Please, I — hh — I didn’t know, it won’t happen ag-gain —“ Tears pool in his eyes. “Please let me — aah — m-make it up to you —“

"Shut up," Zuko orders. His anger recedes somewhat, the flames going back into a bubbling pool inside as he stares at the man. He doesn't want to bring anyone this low, but he can't allow something like this to happen again. "We are not friends. I let you become too familiar too fast, and you  _ forgot your place _ . I do not need you, and I will not hesitate to get rid of you if you disrespect me again. Am I making myself clear?"

Without waiting for an answer, Zuko pushes the man's neck all the way to the ground, his head meeting the soft grass underneath them.

"I'm not hungry anymore. Clear up, and don't come back to me before someone has taught you how servants behave in this place."

Zuko gets up and walks away, shutting his mouth against the smoke welling up inside of him.

When he gets back to his own chambers, he takes a moment just inside the door to properly breathe. His chest feels tight, and it's almost like he can't fill his lungs entirely. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists and instead of going to his office, he goes for the bedroom. Immediately inside the door he changes his mind, and marches straight out of the room again.

The chambers established especially for firebending katas are close to empty at this point of the day, and the two people in there quickly vacate the room when they see him, bowing on the way out. It's for the best. Once alone, Zuko unleashes his full fury on the room. First as mindless bending, burning all that will burn. After a while his fire settles, as though satisfied with the carnage. From there he goes into doing the full set of katas.

At the end of it he is not calm by any measure, but neither does he feel like exploding at the first hint of a provocation. He settles into meditation, and lets the breath of flame carry him away into stillness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for violent punishment (Zuko to Sokka)


	3. Chapter 3

Sokka wakes from a fitful dream, feeling hot and breathless. He’d made the quick decision to take off his outer robe and fold it by his pillow before falling into another shallow nap, and he’s immediately glad of that decision when he peels his sweaty back from the rough sheets.

He can’t quite tell the time, but it’s still hot and bright, and there are a couple other servants sleeping off their night shifts in the bunks around the room.

The bucket of water from earlier is still there, now cooled completely, and he gives himself another quick wipe down. He lingers on his neck, swiping the rag under his collar. He doubts he should be removing it without permission.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? He needs permission. He needs to  _ learn _ . He sets his brow, drops the rag back in the water, and grabs his robe off his bunk before heading out determinedly. He needs to find Aya... or anyone who can teach him.

Aya is sitting in the servant wing kitchen when Sokka comes looking for her. She's holding a quiet conversation with another woman that seems close to her age, but looks up when she hears the door open.

"There’s some stew left over if you're hungry, Water Tribe," she calls out to him, before going back to the conversation she's in.

There are seven people in the room, and five of those look up from their bowls as Aya calls out. The kitchen is small, and the servants are all crowded around one table. The room is hot from the small fire still going, though off on the far side of the room there is a small window that lets in a modicum of fresh air.

Sokka nods and pours himself a little bowl. He’s worried that if he talks, says anything about his day, that it’ll sound like complaining, but he manages a scratchy “Thanks” as he sits down at the table.

His eyes dart around the congregation of servants — varying ages, genders, and positions by the looks of them. He‘s pretty sure that by this point they’ve all gossiped enough to already know who he is, why he’s here. He wonders if they all assume he’s been put to use already, or if they’re still not sure if Zuko really swings that way. He wonders if they’re taking bets.

He takes a bite, and then another. It’s still hot despite being kept off the heat, and spiced with things he can’t even name. It washes away some of the heaviness that sits in his chest, and he beams up at Aya despite himself. “ _ Fuck _ , this is so good,” he says, mouth still part-full. “Who made this?”

Aya smiles indulgently, and points to the boy sitting directly to Sokka's right. The teenager's eyes widen, and he bows his head with a blush.

On Sokka's other side, a girl dressed in very simple servant clothes are staring at the new addition to the kitchen with wide eyes. Then she glances down at the table, and up again.

"I.. I could get you something for that, if you'd like," she says, her tone low. Even so, in the small kitchen it's clear that they've all heard her, and their combined eyes turn on Sokka with newfound interest. Even Aya and her older companion have looked up from their conversation to look at him.

“F-for...?” His hand instinctively raises to his neck in worry. Had Zuko marked him? Left a burn, without Sokka even realizing? It certainly radiates heat, and stings when his bowl-warm fingers brush it.

“Oh... yeah, sure.” He manages a shrug. When Aya’s eyes land on his, he does his best to communicate that he’d like to talk, but he’s not sure how well subtle eyebrow and waterline gestures are going to translate in a foreign country. He may just have to wait.

The girl nods. In two large gulps she finishes her food, and then she gets up and walks out of the kitchen.

"Tervi assists in the infirmary," Aya explains once the girl's made her exit.

Then Aya gets up as well. "If you'd come to my room whenever you're finished, I have some more things to discuss with you, Water Tribe," she says. With a nod to her companion and a smile for the rest, she leaves the kitchen.

Sokka lets out a relieved sigh. Not too bad, all things considered. He downs the rest of his stew, and claps the boy who made it on the back as he scrambles after Tervi.

He really does feel like he’s getting used to the odd, angular labyrinth of this place. It’s always been a specialty of his, picking up on the lay of the land, and he’s grateful for it now as he tracks down the infirmary. This probably won’t be the last time he needs to find his way there, he realizes, and he makes sure to commit the path to memory.

A few other servants linger around, but he hones in on the familiar face. He approaches her, friendly at first, but then he thinks better of it and stops himself, bowing politely. He remembers the placement of his hands this time, though not quite the positions they should be in.

Tervi smiles a smile with a lot of teeth. She hands him a jar, inside of which is a waxy-looking, pink salve.

"Just heat it up a bit with your fingers first, and then apply it. It should help with healing, and making sure the skin doesn't crack when it starts to scab over," she recites. 

Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. "If something happens and you don't want anyone to know, I have the bed below yours. Or you can find me here. Just come get me whenever," she tells him, wide smile turning slightly less so. Then she jumps to attention as an older man suddenly barks at her, and scurries away with a friendly " _ gottago bye! _ ".

He blinks, and smiles after her as she leaves. He realizes he’d forgotten to talk at all before she got pulled away, so he calls out after her. “Thanks, Tervi!”

He doesn’t hesitate to smear a little of the salve on his neck, where he can still imagine Zuko’s tight, scorching grip. Despite the heat of his hands, the salve is cold and tingly, and it smells sharply herbal. For a second he’s caught up in thoughts of soothing snow... but then he’s shuffled out of the way by a tall, wide woman carrying a bag of equipment, so he takes his leave.

Aya is in her room like she’d promised. When he finds her, he still hasn’t taken the time to look in a mirror. He honestly doesn’t want to confront it. Thinking that he’ll have someone to talk to about it all calms him somewhat, and he knocks at her doorframe.

"Come in," Aya responds, looking up from the parchment she's writing on by her desk. Like all parts of the servant wing, this room is likewise tiny, though she has managed to stuff both a desk and a wardrobe to accompany her small bed.

Aya looks at Sokka, and waits for him to speak.

He feels weird standing in the middle of the room, so he leans pseudo-casually against her dresser.

“So... first day on the job went super,” he says, staring at his feet. “And you all thought I couldn’t handle it, huh?” His short laugh is sharper than he means it to be. Darker too.

Aya takes a moment to observe him, before she points at the bed. "You can sit, if you'd like."

She lets Sokka decide for himself whether he'd like to or not. 

He thinks about it. There’s definitely a part of him that wants to slump down and never get up again. But he’s been told a lot today to sit, to stand, to kneel... it honestly feels good to have a modicum of choice, and he’s glad she doesn’t make it sound like an order. He holds up a hand.  _ I’ll pass. _

"Now, tell me what happened."

“Whelp. Turns out I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, for starters. I don’t know where I’m supposed to stand, or how to serve food, or how to talk to him right.” He does his very best to seem languid and casual, but it gets harder to keep up as he goes on, listing his transgressions. “I kind of... sat next to him? At lunch? I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing, but... I did learn that it‘s not that.”

"Agni above," Aya says softly, eyes wide. She glances at the spot where the burn should be, though Sokka wonders if it’s visible in the dim lighting of the room.

"Then you were... Certainly lucky to get out of it as lightly as you did. It is a great offense, to liken the Fire Lord to a servant," she tells him.

“Yeah... I guess so. He  _ did _ threaten to kill me. And my family. Twice, actually, but the other one was pretty much unprompted.” He manages a weak smile. Getting it off his chest helps, even if he knows he can’t do this every time something goes wrong.

“Maybe Fengwei sent me here to kill me. It’d definitely be a... _political_ _choice_...” His voice lowers to a whisper. He’s pretty sure talking like this could get him in a whole slew of trouble, too, and he’d like to mostly keep up a facade of political cluelessness to match his actual customary cluelessness.

“Zuk— the Fire Lord said to come back when I’d learned how to act as a servant. If I want my family to be provided for, I have to go back sometime. So.” He bows deeply to her, eyes to the floor. “Please, teach me how to serve.”

He can see her nod as she crosses her legs to lean back in her chair. "I will find someone to teach you. You say you do not know how to serve, and that is clear. Would you also like for me to find someone who can teach you bedroom etiquette, or do you believe you will manage that part?"

The idea sends a shock through his body. He hadn’t even considered it. It’s a very... vivid image: someone showing him exactly how he ought to take what Zuko will give him, how to move and what to say... but, no. He puts his hands up, a little too defensively perhaps, and shakes his head. “No, I... I think I can manage that part myself. Some of the actual etiquette of it might be helpful, if that’s relevant, but... I think I mostly know  _ how _ to.” He feels like he must be bright red.

Aya smiles, but does not laugh at his discomfort. "Very well. I am quite certain I can find someone to teach you by tomorrow morning. Meet in the kitchen after dawn, and I will introduce you."

She pauses. Looks him over once more, and seems satisfied. "Was there anything else you'd like to air with me tonight?"

He shakes his head. “No.” Then, “well... actually, I also just want to say thank you. For helping. And understanding.” He gives her a crooked smile.

"I've been here for a long time. You are not the first to come here alone and foreign to this place, Sokka. Nor will you be the last."

His bed doesn’t feel quite as nice this time, when he lays himself down. Tervi isn’t in yet, or he’d thank her too, but he’s also happy for the privacy as he strips down to his underwear and crawls under the thin tan covers. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but that’s fine. Morning will come soon enough.

\---

_ Zuko dreams. He dreams of fire, of hands reaching out towards a crying Water Tribe boy and burning him until only half is left, the remnants of flame curling up his face even as time passes. He dreams of stained fingers and cold golden eyes and a cup of tea, broken on the floor in a million pieces. He dreams of a cold metal room with a floor that's never steady. _

_ He dreams of digging his fingers into flesh until it gives, of trying to end it just to have some mercy, but the screaming never stops. _

_ Fire Lord Zuko wakes in a cold sweat, and spends the rest of the night behind his desk. _

\---

Sokka is... unsure, whether he’s slept or not. But at some point he opens his eyes to the shuffling of shift turns and the faintest trickle of morning light. He feels more rested than he ought to, though it might just be that his system is still flooded with the remnants of adrenaline.

He goes to put his robe back on and realizes it’s been replaced in the night with something new. This one is golden and beaded, with thin red pants that hang so low they’re hard to tell, immediately, from a skirt.

His washing water is gone, so he just resolves to wash his face sometime before he visits Zuko. If that happens at all today.

The kitchen is bustling when he reaches it, servants preparing breakfasts for various people of importance. He wonders absently if Zuko will remember to eat breakfast, then feels a little strange for wondering. He curls himself up at a table out of people’s way to quietly watch the practiced flow of labor, while he waits to meet his new tutor.

After a while, an older woman rises from where she's been sitting. Her cup and bowl is empty, and she hands them off to the servant doing the washing. The servant bows his head as the woman passes, as does several others.

"Sokka of the Water Tribe," she greets, coming to stand before the boy. "I am Torrin the Weaver. Housekeeper Aya tells me you are in need of lessons."

Torrin the Weaver is wearing much more extravagant clothing than those around her. She is also noticeably older; a cane in one hand and long, intricately braided hair turned gray with age. Despite her apparent age, however, her eyes have a sharp spark to them as she looks him over.

Sokka bows his head like the other servants do — seems like the safest bet. “Yes. Please.”

He likes her already — there’s an undercurrent of home in the way her skin crinkles, the way her braids fall down her back. And certainly in the almost-mischievous way her eyes light up.

"Good, good." She nods her head. Then suddenly she's in motion. "Let's go then, no time to waste!"

She leads him through the palace, the use of a cane clearly not a hindrance to the speed of her walk. When they end up outside, an ornate water pump in front of them, she looks over at Sokka again. "Go on then. Fill a bucket."

Sokka follows her briskly, admiring the energy she carries even in her age. He looks around momentarily in the faint morning light for a bucket and, finding one, scrambles over to the spigot. “Yes ma’am!”

When the bucket is full almost to the brim, he lugs it over to her while careful not to spill it on his fancy clothes, and sets it at her feet. Straightening up, he smiles. “Okay, not bad so far, right?”

The woman observes Sokka skeptically. “Hmm, at least you are not a stranger to hard work. I swear to Agni, some of the pretty boys I see in these halls...” she turns and starts walking again. “Bring the bucket!” she yells back as an afterthought.

Sokka hikes the bucket up to his hip and hurries after her. The journey continues down the hallways, until they come to a room that does not have a door, just a curtain covering the entrance.

Inside is a room that seems plain, except for subtle details of woodcarving and exquisite fabrics.

“This,” she tells him regally, “is where I’ll teach you to perform a tea ceremony.”

The room is obviously special — even Sokka can feel that. It reminds him, just a little, of spaces where certain ceremonies would be held back home — it might be the ways the fabrics drape, or the little table at its center, or the thin pillows on the floor — he sets the water down quietly.

“It’s pretty,” he says dumbly. He twists his mouth in thought, chews on the next thing he ought to say. “Is that something I’ll be doing a lot of?”

“No, presumably not!” she tells him. Then she reaches over, and pokes him hard in the stomach with her cane. “Now, chin up, no, not that high. A servant always looks upon the ground unless called for. Direct eye contact is a sign of aggression! Now come on, sit down on that pillow over there.” Torrin keeps correcting his pose as he goes. Then she walks over to an alcove in the wall, clearly designed for holding a fire. “The first step is always making fire. You must know how to make one, for your master should not have to make one for you...”

She continues on about the different fires and what they would mean, the fuel used, how long the tea should be steeped on it and the importance of not heating it too long, until she had a complete pot of tea in her hands.

Sokka is silent and wide-eyed, drinking in her instruction.

There’s a moment where it all clicks. She’s explaining the different angles in a servant’s back when they sit, and he’s mentally comparing her list of subliminal meanings to customs at home — leaning forward here means one is reactive and brash, where in his tribe it would show engagement and openness... and then he almost shoots up in his seat.

The Water Tribe had used their own system in social interactions. Exclusivity, reciprocity. Here… Sokka has been getting it wrong. In the Fire Nation, interaction is on a different scale. It’s  _ passive _ , or it’s  _ aggressive _ .

The thought comes like a wave and sweeps him over completely. But he doesn’t move or shout to share his findings — experimentally, he bows his head instead and waits for a lull in Torrin’s explanations. When he finds one, he smiles broadly at the floor and speaks carefully. “I think I understand.”

It will still take some getting used to, but now there’s a formula. Now it’s just... it’s  _ math _ , basically. It’s a matter of calculating the most passive response to any situation, and following through. It’s like... like war strategy, almost.

Ah, but that’s an analogy he ought to keep to himself.

As Torrin pours and serves, it is like she has changed; her eyes turn demure and soft and downturned, pouring Sokka’s cup and then her own. Every movement is measured and deliberate. Once she is done, she sits down in seiza, to the side, not sharing the table with Sokka. Then, suddenly she’s on her feet again.

“Your turn,” she tells him as she takes the tea in the cups and pour them back in the pot. Then she seats herself. She sits straight with her eyes once more turned towards Sokka. Expectant.

It takes him just a second to realize she’s acting. She’s good. When she pours the tea back into the pot, he’s almost startled at the change in character.

Okay. He can do this.

He turns his gaze to his hands, slacking his face a little and letting his thick eyelashes shade her direct view of his eyes. He’s careful not to overdo it — he just needs to look relaxed and nonthreatening.

He stands up just to kneel back down at the table, back straight and angles soft. His hands only shake a little with nerves as he pours — her cup first, then his own — but it isn’t enough to spill a drop. He gently places her cup, right where it belongs, then moves gracefully to sit away from her with his own, on his knees like she showed him.

There’s a moment where he just stares into his cup, breathing hard and silent. It’s honestly a bit of a rush to have done it without noticeably fucking up, and he hopes she tells him that he’s done a good job. After a moment of regulating himself, he peeks up at her, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Torrin takes a sip from her cup.

“Mmm yes, well poured, but this does taste like tea of my own making. Are you not going to make your own tea?” She asks, and her eyes have taken a mischievous twinkle to it even as she keeps her perfect posture.

He can’t help but crack a smile. “I think I’ll need a little more practice on that part before you want to taste what I make you.”

He does practice, in the end, and manages quite well. Teamaking, it appears, is a science rather than an art. Most of it is ritual, but there are strange tools to learn, and rigid structures he can follow.

It has to steep at the correct temperature for the correct amount of time, both of which he can find familiarity in. The temperature is about that of a bowl of stew, just barely cool enough to hold. The time is almost perfectly the length of one of the songs his sister used to sing when they were children.

He’s.. almost having fun?

When he finishes this batch, he kneels again. Pours.  _ Yours, mine. _ Then he sits away from his instructor and awaits her judgment.

Torrin takes a sip, hums, and takes another. "Too few leaves, it's a bit weak." She chuckles. "Come, sit. I have something I wish to tell you before we continue your instruction."

She continues once Sokka has taken place at the opposite side of the table from her. "You are in a very peculiar position, here at court.You have the potential to be either the lowest ranked servant in the palace, or to have power here beyond even what the noble families have. You could become the closest person to the Fire Lord himself, and thus your word would be his. Your will reflecting his. That would however put immense pressure upon you, and any act of yours might not only be your, but also  _ his _ ruin. I pray you will keep this in mind."

Sokka nods. He doesn’t understand, not really, but he’ll have time to figure out what she means. The idea that Sokka could have any kind of importance is downright laughable, but Torrin seems to take it seriously enough. He lets it pass.

He lets days pass, in fact. Every day, dawn till well into the night, he’s at Torrin’s side. Or, more often, at her feet. By the end of it, she has him well trained enough that, were she and the Fire Lord to snap at the same time, he worries he doesn’t know who he would turn to.

(Another joke he promises himself not to tell.)

Now he’s standing, jelly-legged, outside Fire Lord Zuko’s chamber door. He’s brought a small tray of tea and pastries on someone’s suggestion, and the smell doesn’t do as much to calm his nerves as he would like — too many visions of shattered pottery.

He knocks, and quickly second guesses himself, but what else is there to be done? He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing comments so far, and for following along! We were both so excited by everyone's engagement, that we wanted to post again as soon as possible!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Things are about to get sexy, so please check the end notes for CWs.

"Enter," Zuko calls from where he sits behind his own desk, glaring at the overview of the palace's expenses.

He doesn't know who it is, but he quietly hopes that it is Azula just so he has someone to take his annoyance out on. She'd tease him about his workload and prod at him until he exploded, and that sounds like just the kind of cathartic firebending he needs at the moment.

Of course, it isn't Azula.

With the passing of days, Zuko had almost come to believe that the Water Tribe servant had fled the palace and gone back to his family. It would have been for the best. Of course, one of the old women living in the Palace had informed him through a missive that she'd taken Sokka under her wing. When he hadn't seen any sign of the man in the following days, however, he had managed to put him out of his mind. Bringing his focus back to the important things; his duties, first and foremost. It was only when his concentration fled him that he thought back on the man, and on the mark Zuko had left on him.

He won't be so weak as to lose control of his temper this time.

From his office he hears his chamber door click open, then shut again.

And then a quiet voice. “I’ve brought tea for you, my Lord.” 

Zuko waits for a moment before he snaps his gaze up to land on the servant. He is almost surprised to find Sokka kneeling there, tray outstretched, seeming at ease in his position of servitude. He shouldn't be, of course: Torrin the Weaver has served the family for close to forty years, so she'd know better than him how a servant is supposed to act.

He doesn't know which part makes him get up, abandoning his work; whether it is the way Sokka looks so unlike the person he came here as; whether it's his hunger, or thirst, or desperation to get away from numbers and costs. Either way Zuko gets up and walks past Sokka into the sitting room. He can hear Sokka stand. Turn. Perfectly in step.

He sits down, and gazes at Sokka expectantly. Warily.

Sokka puts on a demure face that Zuko sees on his servants often — loose and almost pleasured in his servitude, but never losing focus or footing. He pours Zuko’s tea smoothly, and tucks his chin in a little lower just as Zuko catches him beginning to smile. Then, he lays the delicately-plated pastries beside the cup -- on Zuko’s left, so the teacup is within easy reach.

He smoothly retrieves the tray and backs away to kneel, fully within Zuko’s view but far enough that he isn’t underfoot.

Zuko looks to the cup, then to Sokka. He hides his disbelief behind an expression of appraisal, and keeps his eyes on Sokka as he takes a sip.

It's jasmine, and it's almost exactly like his uncle used to brew it. 

_ That cunning witch _ , he thinks wonderingly as a wave of nostalgia hits him. It is not that it is an unusual tea to make in the Fire Nation, but the resemblance to the blend he once knew is uncanny. Too perfect of a match to be coincidence.

Zuko breathes in. Breathes out. A strange calm settles over him.

"Come closer," he tells Sokka, as he cradles the cup in his hands.

He watches Sokka perk up before he stands, pads closer, and settles back onto his knees within arm’s reach. Not so directly at Zuko’s feet that he’s in the way, but able to scoot in with ease should Zuko decide he needed Sokka even nearer.

With another meditative breath, Zuko reaches a hand away from the cup and towards Sokka. He brushes his fingers against the red skin that covers half his neck like a second collar. Sokka tenses at the touch, squints his eyes shut -- Zuko can feel every thrum of his pulse.

The burn does not look too bad, part from having had a few days to heal, and part because he wasn't using actual fire. Just heat. Heat enough for a visible mark days later, but not enough to burn off the actual skin.

"You got something to treat it?" he asks, because he recognizes the feeling of burn salve on skin. It's good. It means that Sokka will not leave things to chance, won't let a wound stay without care.

Sokka nods.

Zuko removes his hand, and hears a sigh escape Sokka as his shoulders visibly relax. He wants to apologize. Yet he can't, because Fire Lords do not make mistakes and Sokka needed to learn, lest he offended someone who could decide he'd be better off dead.

"Good," he says instead, because the least he can do is make his approval known, and he catches a little smile in response. 

He sips his tea and eats some of the pastries, and feels strangely at peace where he sits. He should probably have kept working, but this moment of stillness is almost worth the time he's wasting. At peace, and yet he also misses when Sokka would break the silence of his own volition. Sokka isn't his friend though, and any conversation between them will be as much of a service to him as if Zuko asked for other things.

"What did you think of old lady Torrin?" he asks, because apparently he's willing to take conversation that is just service at this point. The past day Zuko's been alone in his office, and the day before that was a day of cold meetings and orders.

“She’s amazing,” Sokka answers quickly. Then he takes time to continue, straightening beneath Zuko’s gaze. “I mean. She’s. Very knowledgeable, and kind. She reminded me a bit of... my old home. I liked training under her.”

Zuko nods.

He wants to keep a conversation going, but he doesn't quite know how. He could ask about Sokka's former home, but it would be tinged with sadness. He could ask about things he might like to know about the Water Tribes as Fire Lord, but that was the exact kind of cold conversation he’d wanted to escape from.

He could ask about the training with Torrin, what Sokka had learned, but that might be something Sokka would like to keep private.

With another deep breath, in, hold, out, Zuko takes another sip of the tea. Then he just watches as the flames of the room breathe with him. 

“Fire Lord Zuko...” Sokka breaks the silence, finally, “I am.  _ So _ sorry for my transgression in the garden. I... I swear, it’ll never happen again. But, please, I have to know...” His voice cracks, like a log on a fire, but when he speaks again he’s slipped into something low and seductive. “Do you... want me?”

Zuko's head whips around so fast there's an audible sound from it.

"I-  _ What _ ?" he exclaims, because of all things, he somehow hadn't expected Sokka to make such a move. He'd been prepared to ignore the purpose of Sokka's presence forever if need be, because he had no plans of taking advantage of a person who had no wish to be there other than to save his own family.

And now this.

"Do I  _ want _ you?" he repeats. He should have known that Sokka would be going against his expectations again. A few lessons with an old crow couldn't change a man completely.

Sokka sinks in on himself, becoming smaller where he sits. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I just... I mean... anything you want. I’m here to serve you. I just. Hope that you won’t send me away from this place.”

The air goes out of Zuko almost as fast as it came. He lets his composure fall for a moment, and rubs his face with his palm. "Sokka. I am not sending you away. If I was going to do so, I would have done so immediately." He lets that sentence linger for a few seconds, before he continues. "I am not the kind of man who would have sex with a person who doesn't reciprocate. I find the notion that I am that kind of person... Disturbing. And insulting."

Zuko's thoughts go to the General who gifted him Sokka, and considers how it might have very well have been meant as an insult. It is just so hard to say, when Fengwei didn't say so outright.

“I… Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko, thank you so much for not sending me away. I can’t... can’t go home to my family. I would  _ dishonor _ them, strip them of everything, and we would be left with less than we had before I agreed to come. It could kill us.” Zuko watches his jaw clench as Sokka grits his teeth. “But I don’t know what will happen if Fengwei thinks you haven’t been... that you don’t... that I’m not being put to use as your  _ gift _ .” 

Sokka pauses, but when Zuko doesn’t speak, he continues. “I don’t mean any disrespect, I really really don’t. I am willing. I’m happy to do it. But... I mean, if you don’t want to...” He’s static, eyes on his hands on his knees on the floor. “... maybe you could just... make it look like you had?”

Zuko’s entire body stills, and his expression shutters away like it was never there to begin with.

“And what would that entail then?” His voice is quiet, measured. He looks down at Sokka’s neck. What would that burn look like to an outsider? A punishment? Or potentially, would it look like Zuko lost his cool when Sokka was on his knees, servicing him the way he was supposed to?

“I’m... not sure,” Sokka admits. “I don’t know exactly how... rough you’re expected to be? Or...” He angles his face further from Zuko. “It can be... whatever you think is... appropriate.”

What Zuko would find  _ appropriate _ . There is nothing appropriate about this situation. There is what is expected, and there is what Zuko is willing to do to meet those expectations.   
  
And then there is what he desires. Things that he’d never admit to out in the open, things that would make him vulnerable.

With measured movements, Zuko puts the cup back on the tray. He rises from his position on the couch and stands above Sokka. From this position he can barely even see Sokka's face, much less his expression. He reaches down and grasps Sokka's chin. With a gentle yet firm touch he angles Sokka's head upwards.

"What would send the most  _ appropriate _ message, I wonder," he says, and thinks. He has been fostering an image of being less brutal than his father, but he knows it’s not that simple. He is a Fire Lord in peacetime. There is no reason to burn down villages, or to extort his citizens of money. That does not mean he wouldn't, if that was what he gauged to be the best for the Fire Nation at large. When it comes to hurting a single person only because it would be the best way to earn the respect of his council... If he is to be honest, he's not certain he has the stomach for it.

Does that make him weak? His mind flashes to an Agni Kai that feels like forever ago. Yes, he decides. It is weakness and cowardice that makes him hesitate to use Sokka as he was intended. But is it stupidity as well?

Sokka sucks in a shuddering breath through his teeth, cheeks a little squished from Zuko’s grip. With nowhere else to look, his eyes lock with his master’s.

“I...” he starts, but the words that follow don’t quite form.

Zuko considers the way Sokka's looking for a few seconds, the way he's reacting to Zuko's grip. There is one thing that would make the decision simple to make. "Is this what you want, Sokka? Would you like for me to use you, to mark you until there was no doubt about who your owner is?"

The way he's talking, it feels like he's playing a role. Similar to when he takes the lead in council meetings, or when he holds a conversation with his sister and it's like every step of it is planned out beforehand. But this is much more personal. Much more intense.

Looking into Sokka's face, reading his expression, Zuko feels a strange rush.

Sokka hesitates for a long time, like he’s considering his answer. Then he huffs a tiny laugh and looks Zuko dead in the eyes. Is it defiance? Desire? Zuko tilts his head, his mouth quirking slightly in response. It somehow makes the situation feel better, lighter, when Sokka can still carry enough of himself to look at Zuko like he does. 

“Please.” Sokka nods, as much as he can in Zuko’s grip. “If that’s what you want, I want it too.”

The hand holding Sokka's chin trails up, over Sokka's ear, trailing along the path his hair makes to where it's all gathered up in a bun. Zuko tugs on the strip of leather holding it together, and just like that it unravels. The thick wavy hair comes down to frame Sokka's face, and Zuko easily admits to himself that he finds the sight beautiful.

Then he grasps a handful of soft hair, and leads Sokka's head backward until he has no other choice than to either go down on his back or to start resisting.

Sokka gasps, but follows obediently, eyes only leaving Zuko’s face when he’s pulled too far back to see. Zuko takes a bit of time just to look at him, laid out on the floor. His mind had figured it would be a good idea, but now he doesn't actually know what to do about him. Does he want to have sex with him? Does he want to be serviced? Or would he prefer to keep himself in absolute control, and just have Sokka lay there and take it?

He's supposed to hurt him, he remembers. There doesn't have to be any sort of sexual act.

Zuko’s just not certain if that’s what  _ he _ wants.

Crouching down, Zuko runs his hand up the beautifully-made top that Sokka's wearing. Sokka squirms under his touch, and Zuko can feel his heavy heartbeat. He thinks he might like to see what's underneath, to see what a toned and weathered body from an icy landscape might look like. With a flash of inspiration, he smirks briefly, before trailing a finger from collar to bottom hem. In the wake of his touch, a trail of fire cuts through the fabric like it was butter, leaving the skin below it completely unharmed. It takes concentration to do firebending this precise. Yet it also leaves Zuko with immense satisfaction, and pride.

Sokka looks down in a panic, tense like a tightly-coiled spring, but his head falls back when he sees that it’s only his clothes that are singed. A moan of relief slips from his parted lips, mostly covered by a breathy chuckle. “Aah— hah... aw, I liked this one.”

With his top opened, Zuko now trails his fingers over the chest that's been revealed beneath the sheer fabric. "Then I expect it to be fixed by next time, so I can destroy it again," he murmurs, and trails his hand across scars and muscles and dark skin.

As his hand trails further downwards, Sokka's loose pants make no secret of his girth. He's clearly affected by Zuko's touch, and something in him is glad of that. If Zuko had been sent someone who just couldn't get into it... He knows Sokka is not here of his own volition, and yet it somehow matters that he could get something from the intercourse as well.

Untying Sokka's pants, Zuko lets the soft fabric trail against Sokka's erection before he pulls it down to pool at Sokka's ankles.

Sokka's thighs are somehow just as scarred as his upper body. It's fascinating to him, because even with Zuko's many years of travel he never even managed to gather a quarter amount of the scars that Sokka has.

"Would you like for me to touch you, Sokka?" Zuko asks, his hand stopping on Sokka's thigh.

Sokka looks embarrassed, but not unwilling. His face is pink and flustered, but there is a tremble to his body, a hitch in his breath before he answers, and Zuko drinks it all up with a hunger that surprises him. It takes a moment before Sokka nods.

“Y-yes. Please. If that’s what you want too.”

He hadn't imagined that he'd wanted this at all, yet now he feels his heart beating and he longs to know the continuation. Like a play reaching for a top in action as the scene transitions, there is an underlying feeling of anticipation.

"I don't think you've earned it yet," he says, cocking his head to the side as he gazes down at Sokka. He removes his hand from Sokka's thigh. "Open your mouth."

Sokka nods again. He opens his mouth, as commanded.

Zuko trails his thumb across Sokka's bottom lip, just barely brushing the underside of his tongue as he does so. Then he moves the thumb up, following the path past Sokka's teeth. He presses his thumb down on Sokka's tongue, holding the jaw open as he does so. Zuko doesn't really know why, but something in him wants to see Sokka's reaction. To see how he will take it, whether he'll be disgusted, or surprised, or even aroused...

“Aahn—“ the pressure on Sokka’s tongue startles a sound from his throat. The muscle instinctively struggles under Zuko’s thumb, and drool pools at the corner of Sokka’s mouth. Zuko watches his eyes almost unfocus, before he’s able to steadily hold Zuko’s gaze once more. His tongue moves purposefully, curling as much as it can around his finger.

Sokka manages something like a smile around Zuko’s hand. The smile feels almost like a challenge. Zuko takes it as one, at least, because he immediately pushes three more fingers into Sokka's mouth, stretching his lips wide and his jaw open further.

“Mmmmhh!” Sokka gasps as the fingers force their way into his mouth, and he bucks his hips on instinct. Zuko spares a glance down to see that Sokka has grown fully hard, just from licking messily at Zuko’s fingers like this.

Zuko finds himself surprisingly turned on by it as well; by the way Sokka tries to suck on his digits even as he pushes them in and out of Sokka's mouth; the way his lips feel around them, and how it's so easy to imagine that feeling on his cock. He considers adding the last finger, but finds he is too impatient to bother. Instead he removes the three, wiping them on Sokka's chest, before he unlaces his own pants.

When he bares himself, his own arousal is clear. His cock is big and full, and aches in a strangely pleasant way.

He straddles Sokka's chest. "Show me how much you want to serve me. Then I'll reward you," he promises, running his hand almost gently across the side of Sokka's face as his cock curves just a bare inch from his chin.

Sokka raises his hands slowly toward Zuko’s waist, but stops before they touch skin “Zuko... can I touch you?” He lowers his mouth a little, breathes a sigh against Zuko’s cock. 

The hand brushing against Sokka's face settles on his cheek. Zuko frowns, even if he's not feeling particularly annoyed. He feels... Powerful. "Did I tell you to speak back at me?" he questions, before he lifts his hand and smacks Sokka across the face. Not hard enough to properly hurt him, probably not even hard enough to bruise, but certainly enough to feel it. And, apparently, enough to make him writhe.

"Apologize,  _ slave _ ," he demands, his frown settled back into a nonchalant carelessness. The word slipped off his tongue before he could even think about it, and he shrugs off the sudden doubt that crawls in on him. His hand travels down to grip at Sokka's throat; not hard, just a steady presence, right above his collar.

“Aa- _ ahhh _ , I’m sorry! Please, Zuko...” Sokka holds his mouth so close to Zuko’s shaft that he brushes it with his lips. “Please, forgive me.”

And then he takes the head in his mouth, drags his tongue along its contours.

Zuko’s grip on Sokka's neck gets in the way, so he transfers his hand over to the free-falling waves of hair, feeling the strain of Sokka's muscles through a faint tremble. It's a bad position for Sokka to pleasure him, and yet that makes it even more satisfactory as Sokka struggles to do so. Like it's worth more, that the man has to work for it. Work for the right to gain pleasure in return.

Zuko imagines Sokka writhing and trembling as he gets touched, as Zuko rewards him, and the thought sends shivers through his body as his cock twitches in Sokka's mouth. As if in response, Sokka leans his head up and wraps his hands experimentally around Zuko’s back to steady himself as he opens his mouth a little further, takes a little more.

Zuko hums. "Good boy," he says, almost as much a reaction as it is calculated praise. Sokka seems to brighten, and replies with another throaty hum that buzzes around Zuko’s heavy cock. He closes his eyes and takes a few moments just to enjoy the sensation. He breathes deeply, and his inner fire breathes with him. Zuko can feel his chest growing warm, heat escalating in tact with the beats of his heart.

A few moments of feeling Sokka's wet mouth around his dick, and Zuko once more digs his fingers into Sokka's hair. It makes for a good hand hold as he starts to help Sokka's motion, pushing his cock deeper and deeper with every pull until he feels his cock jutting against the roof of Sokka's mouth. The feeling is indescribable, and Zuko almost loses himself in the slow rhythm.

Sokka has to follow the grip to avoid having his hair pulled roughly, sliding his mouth down a little further with every thrust of Zuko’s hips, but every so often he gags a little and pulls back, and receives a rough tug on his scalp that makes his whole body shiver beneath Zuko.

His throat opens up slow, and tears well up in his eyes. Zuko doesn’t allow him to pull away enough to wipe them, or to dab away the drool that’s flowing freely down his chin. Instead, Sokka doubles down, pulling himself closer, pushing Zuko deeper, until he genuinely can’t take more.

There is something beautiful in the way Sokka swallows around him, in the trembling of his body and he tears gathering on his eyelashes. He feels Sokka take him down until he gags, and wants more. He’s never felt the need to completely wreck someone before, and yet this is burning fires of destruction that threaten to swallow him whole.

“Doing so good for me,” he murmurs as he pulls more on Sokka’s hair, forcing himself even deeper. “Just hold it right there,” he continues in a soft voice as he makes Sokka take it all, thrusting his hips against Sokka until his lips meet Zuko’s abdomen. He holds him there for a few, torturous moments, and Sokka convulses, fighting against his gag reflex. When Zuko finally does pull away just a little Sokka’s able to gasp around him, sputtering thick ropes of drool that well up from his throat.

Zuko is not going to last much longer, but that might be for the best with how Sokka is looking at that moment, hips bucking against the air.  _ Mark him, _ his brain sings, and Zuko reaches backwards and runs his nails up Sokka’s torso, digging into the soft skin. Sokka whines and thrashes and sobs, tears streaming down his face.

The reaction he gets from one simple scratch is enough to tip Zuko over the edge, letting out a sigh as he pulls out of Sokka's mouth and spills over the left side of his face. Sokka is trembling as well, and Zuko wonders idly whether it's from lack of breath or from arousal as he slowly comes down from his high. Sokka holds his mouth open wide, letting Zuko’s cum plaster his hair to his skin, letting it drip slowly down his neck… he drags his tongue across his lips, and his eyes roll back in pleasure.

Even as wrecked as he looks, Zuko still finds him beautiful. He's a mess, and Zuko can't resist touching the trails of liquid over Sokka's face, brushing his swollen lips with coated fingers as an afterthought.

"You did well," he says, feeling truly sated for the first time in a while.

It's time to get back to work.

Zuko gets up, and gives a stray thought to Sokka's erection. He did promise...

"Oh," he utters, brows raised, as he discovers a trail of sperm up Sokka's stomach. The trail stops suddenly where Zuko was straddling him, and he looks over the back of his robe.

"And I was going to reward you. Seems you already took that reward for yourself."

Sokka looks dizzily down his own body, and slowly seems to process the shiny wet mess of his stomach.

“I’m sorry!” Sokka shakes as he surveys the damage. “Spirits, I’m so sorry, Zuko, I didn’t mean to, it was just so good, and-”

"Shut up," he orders. There is something in him that feels joy in the thought that Sokka enjoyed himself. He does not have the time or the position to entertain something like that, however. He'd set out to make Sokka look used. He definitely does.

Zuko shrugs off his robe, and deposits it on top of Sokka.

"Clean yourself off and clean my clothes. After that you can bring dinner to my office."

With that, Zuko walks into his bedroom. He puts on another robe, this one more comfortable than the last.

He should probably clean himself up as well. Though he was left in much less of a mess than Sokka was, his fingers feel dirty with cum and spit.

With a sigh he washes his hands in the cold washwater left over from the morning. He'll take a bath later.

The next hour or so is spent doing more paperwork. He'll have to arrange a meeting with the archivists tomorrow, because the stack of parchment he retrieved from them is a mess. Who can possibly do research when things aren't ordered correctly?

All the while his mind keeps flitting back. The way he'd acted with Sokka had been unlike how he would usually, and at times Zuko finds himself stabbed by guilt as he remembers how Sokka had looked when Zuko had left him. Should he have taken care of him? This had been what he'd wanted, he'd said so himself. And yet it felt so fundamentally wrong, to treat another living being like this.

_ It doesn't matter _ , Zuko tells himself sternly.  _ You are the Fire Lord. You are supposed to treat him this way. _

At least in front of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Dubcon/noncon (master/slave)  
> Deepthroating & gagging


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This is another REALLY HEAVY chapter, so please check the end notes for CWs and, for real, remember to mind those tags.
> 
> ALSO there'll be a link in the end notes to the server we RP and write in! You can read the original RP there, as well as others that might get converted to fic later, and even claim a channel to RP in if you'd like!

"Clean yourself off and clean my clothes. After that you can bring dinner to my office."

Sokka nods bruskly and gathers the robe in a bundle, careful not to smear his own cum into a mess any worse than it already is. He forces himself to stand. He feels absolutely ruined.

He shimmies back into his pants, pulls his destroyed robe in close enough to cover his chest, and wipes his face on his sleeve. When he looks back, Zuko’s already gone. There’s more Sokka wants to say, but he doesn’t actually know _what_ , and Zuko has already made it clear anyway that he wants Sokka to keep his mouth shut when not in use for servicing him. There’s something in his chest that might be anger, or hurt... but he doesn’t want to think about it.

He bustles out of Zuko’s chamber, clinging to corners and shadows, to the laundry rooms. Hopefully he can get there and start getting cleaned up before anyone sees him in such a state.

But... isn’t that also kind of the point?

Sokka doesn’t quite manage to get through the evening unseen. There are several attendants in the laundry rooms, and he’s mostly certain that all of them get a good look in while he busies himself, rinsing Zuko’s robe first with cold water.

There’s a bitterness that clings in his raw, bruised throat. He knows this is his role... he knows he agreed to it. He even knows he enjoyed it, quite thoroughly. So why does he feel like he’s been... been wronged? He guesses he has. Objectively, it’s repulsive that his position even exists. But he keeps thinking about Zuko’s face, the quiet pleasure that swept over him. And the way he’d praised Sokka, told him he was doing a good job...

Finally satisfied with his work on Zuko’s robe, he hangs it to dry and picks a new one for himself, dark and smooth, with windows of lace through which Zuko will be able to see the skin of his shoulders. He’d like to say that he doesn’t care what he wears at all, that he just wants the night to be over, but it’s comfortable and beautiful and it makes him feel a little better.

His time in the bathhouse is rushed. He’s not there to take care of himself, just to wash up enough that he’s presentable again to the man who disheveled him. And then to the kitchen, for something he can take to Zuko. It all feels almost farcical. Out through one door, in through another, all for someone else’s entertainment... when he himself feels like he’s barely real.

He catches Korma, the head chef, in the kitchen. She quirks her eyebrow at him in a way that makes his stomach hurt. Has rumor spread that fast? But he knows how the palace servants are, by this point. It definitely has.

Korma gives him a large tray of dinner to bring to Zuko — they both know it’s not all going to get eaten, and Sokka understands that this is her way of potentially giving him something nice to eat, too.

Sokka knocks on Zuko’s outer door for the second time today. 

The steaming plate of grilled fruit and meat he’s brought feels like a shield in front of him, like that’s all he has to separate him from the trepidation of seeing Zuko again.

He remembers to keep his eyes to the floor.

"Come in," he hears Zuko call, from deep within the chamber. He pushes through the door and goes right to Zuko’s office. He stands there, head down, for a long moment before he remembers to kneel with the tray.

It feels like acting out a scene from earlier.

He can barely bring himself to speak above a whisper, both for his nerves and the ache of his throat. “Your dinner, Fire Lord Zuko, as requested.”

Zuko glances at Sokka. "Ah, yes. Just put it on the desk." He takes a moment to look at the desk, full to bursting with various parchments, and sighs. "Never mind, I'll eat it in the receiving room." With that he gets up from his chair, and Sokka can almost feel the strain on his legs as he straightens them out. He looks stiff, perhaps from sitting too long on his knees earlier. Tired, in a different way than he’s looked before.

Sokka follows after Zuko and lays the dishes out on the table. He’s even brought a chilled bottle of rice wine, which he sets out precisely, far enough from Zuko that it doesn’t pressure him and close enough that he knows it’s an option. Sokka prides himself silently on how well he’s picked up those little social calculations.

He positions himself similarly. Far enough, close enough. He closes his eyes for a second and just listens.

Zuko takes his time eating, slow and mellow. Once he seems sated, he leans back on the couch. More than half of the food is left… probably not unusual, but to Sokka, it feels intentional. On Korma’s part, at least, if not Zuko’s.

"Sokka," he says suddenly, and motions with his hand toward the sofa opposite him. "I'd like for you to sit on the couch for a moment." 

Sokka snaps to attention. It’s not like he’d _stopped_ paying attention, but it had been strangely calming to sit there at Zuko’s heels. To just _be_. But it barely takes a sentence from Zuko to start his heart pounding again.

“Oh! Y-yes, Sir.” He stands carefully, but quickly. He seats himself across from him, and marvels once again at how luxurious Zuko’s furniture is. But he angles his eyes down, looks at his hands where they settle in his lap. He waits for Zuko to speak again, and it takes a moment for him to do so.

"I would like to brand you," he tells Sokka finally, matter-of-factly. A pause, to let that sink in, before he continues. "And I am telling you, so that you know you have a choice. You can say no, and our arrangement will end. Or you can say yes, and be branded with my mark for the rest of your life. You can have some time to think about it, if you'd like."

Sokka’s eyes go wide, but they don’t leave his hands, even as the knuckles go white in his robe.

He’d known that this was a permanent position, when he’d agreed to it. That he’d be here until he either fucked up badly enough to be killed or sent away, or until he was old enough to be uninteresting. But the permanence of branding... the prospect of being marked as belonging to Zuko, forever... it’s terrifying. It’s awful, and shameful, and spirits know how bad it’s going to hurt.

It also feels... strangely like a reward.

“I don’t need time to think,” he says cautiously. He can almost hear the soreness of his used throat. “It’s... it’s what I want.”

He quickly spares a glance up. Zuko looks surprised. He certainly doesn’t look happy. Sokka looks back down.

"Very well," Zuko agrees. "You will have some freedom in where it goes. The brand should be here in a day or two, so I expect you to be ready then."

Sokka nods. He’s already running through options. If it can go anywhere, where will it hurt least? His shoulder, maybe? His back?

“Thank you, Sir.” He says. The confidence is leaving his voice fast, and he’d like to collapse in a heap of nerves, but he stays upright.

He wonders if all servants have to go through branding, or just certain ones... favorites? The word makes Sokka’s stomach flip. He certainly hasn’t seen a brand on anyone yet. He wonders, too, if it’s something Zuko wants to do, or if it’s something that’s expected. There’s no pleasure in his voice, nor malice... he’s so hard to read. Not that Sokka has a right to read him anyway.

Zuko nods. Then he gets up. "I am going back to work. Have whatever you wish of the rest." He gestures at the plentiful leftovers. "You will not be required for the rest of the night."

Sokka only looks up when he’s sure Zuko’s eyes are no longer on him. He turns quietly to watch him as he slips into his office and out of sight.

He turns to the tray of food and plucks a bite from a dish of meat with Zuko’s discarded chopsticks and only a little hesitation.

It might be the best thing he’s ever tasted, even if it’s grown a little cold. He scarfs the rest, careful to be quiet and clean, then stacks the dishes neatly. The sake returns to the tray, too, having gone untouched.

He takes the tray, and almost goes to leave silently, then thinks better of it. He goes instead to Zuko’s office doorway and bows smoothly.

“I’ll be leaving now, Zuko. Is there anything else you need?”

Zuko looks up at him for a moment before he waves him off, burying his head once more behind stacks of parchment.

Sokka’s trek back to the kitchen is contemplative. It’s been a long day, and he’s exhausted in every sense. But he also feels warm and full, and he can’t quite shake the vision of Zuko’s face, genuinely calm.

\---

Before it gets too late, Zuko makes sure to send out the order for a brand carrying his insignia. He debates a while over the size, before he decides that fist-sized would probably be sufficient. Not so large it wouldn't fit on a shoulder or a leg, but not so small that people can't tell exactly who the branded belongs to. That is his main goal of doing this in the first place, after all. Sokka is his, and anyone even thinking of touching Sokka should know that they would incur his wrath in doing so.

Long after the light of the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, Zuko sits at his desk. Researching, writing correspondence, and thinking. It is only when the moon is framed perfectly by his window that he realizes it is time for bed. He goes and draws the curtains, ignoring how the moon is leering down at him in her full red glory.

\---

“Sokka. Up.” The gruff voice of a night shift servant is enough to rouse him from his restless sleep, and enough to fill him with renewed dread. “The Fire Lord has sent for you.”

Sokka knows, without a doubt, what day it is. It’s been the promised few days since Zuko ordered the brand, and Sokka’s been more on-edge the more time has passed. He looks out the window — the sky is bright enough that he knows the sun must be fully over the horizon, but it’s still quite early. Some of the morning shift hasn’t even risen yet.

Ren looks a little embarrassed, waking him, but they’re holding new clothes for Sokka, and if they know why Zuko has asked for him then they don’t let on. Well, they probably _think_ they know why, but...

“Thanks, Ren.” Sokka gives them a forced smile and takes the robe. It’s a more traditional one — drapes of reds and blacks. It looks almost like something Zuko would wear. At least, that’s the thought that plagues Sokka as he slips it on, an audacious fantasy of wrapping the Fire Lord’s own clothes around himself.

“He says to wash up first,” Ren says over their shoulder as they begin to undress for bed.

Sokka washes himself thoroughly, but quickly. It takes some stretching, but he pays extra attention to the spot between his shoulder blades that he’s picked out for Zuko’s brand. Better to be somewhere he doesn’t have to see every day, he reasons.

His hair is still damp when he taps on Zuko’s door. He wonders if he’ll always have to knock, or if someday they’ll have enough of a routine that Sokka can let himself in. The thought is bitterly domestic in his mouth, and he swallows it down.

“Enter,” comes the call.

Sokka feels strange, coming in this time with empty hands. There’s nothing to focus on, nothing to hide behind.

The main space is empty when Sokka enters, and at first he assumes Zuko must be waiting in his office. But that’s not where the sunlight filters in, or where he hears the soft rustling of fabric. Is Zuko... waiting for him in his bedroom?

Maybe Zuko has some nerves to work out, to steady his hand. Maybe he’d like Sokka to service him before the branding... or after, maybe, to soothe his heat. Unless... a knot builds in Sokka’s throat. He wouldn’t want to... during? He realizes he’s getting way ahead of himself. He just has to wait for Zuko to tell him what he needs.

Cautiously he approaches the bedroom. With a twist of dark humor he realizes he hasn’t seen inside it before, despite his position. He peeks in, and there’s Zuko, sure enough. He catches his eyes -- practically blazing, reflecting the sun even when it doesn't shine on his face directly -- before his own gaze shoots to the floor and his back straightens, then bends into a low bow.

"Undress", Zuko commands, from an easy lotus position on the bed. 

Sokka can’t fight off his tension quite so easily — he wants to look ready, willing... but his movements are stiff as he undoes his robe and lets it fall to the bedroom floor with a resounding thump.

His heart is pounding so fast, pushing a hot blush not just to his face, but his neck and chest as well. He steps out of his salvar and hesitates just for a second — this too? — before deciding to strip off the thin shorts below them, exposing himself completely.

The way Zuko commands him calls back their last meeting. _Open your mouth_ , he hears again, same as he’s replayed it countless times since. It stokes a heat in his core, but he’s not quite surprised that he‘s still soft. He’s smaller, this way, by a reasonable amount. He’s honestly grateful, though. If he were hard coming into this... he worries it could set a precedent for Zuko to take it further.

Zuko just watches Sokka's movements. He's calm. Deadly calm.

"Now show me. Where would you like it?"

There’s something so strange about Zuko asking Sokka what he’d like. On one hand — none of it. Nowhere. He won’t like this, no matter where it goes or what he knows is best for him, or his family, or his tribe. On the other... it soothes him a little. Gives him a tiny illusion that he does have a choice. His heartbeat seems to slow, just barely.

“M-my back. If that’s okay. Between my shoulders. Or, at least, that’s what I was thinking.” He also won’t be able to reach back to pick at it, which means it might heal better. Unless he wants to put his burn salve on it? But, no, that would defeat the point if it healed too well.

Zuko tilts his head to the side with a subdued snort of almost-laughter. "No," he responds. He gets up, and walks around Sokka.

Zuko takes a moment behind him before reaching out to touch Sokka's spine, and Sokka openly shudders under the touch. He trails a finger from Sokka's tailbone, and all the way up to his neck.

"This is where your spine lies. Not only is your spine the most important thing to keep you standing. It is also where a lot of pressure points are placed. You would not enjoy getting branded here," Zuko explains. Sokka feels stupid... but Zuko doesn’t sound like he’s scolding him. It’s almost nurturing, closer to the soft voice of a teacher. Still, he’s embarrassed, and his involuntary squirm under Zuko’s finger makes it worse.

“Sorry... then... maybe my shoulder?” It would hurt less, for sure, but it will also be more vulnerable there, and less escapable when Sokka looks at his own body. “If that’s better?”

Zuko moves his hand in a trailing path over to Sokka's upper arm. Pressing his fingers into the point where shoulder meets upper arm, he gives a small hum. "Here?" he asks. Then he moves his hand again, over to the shoulder blade. He pushes once more, into the most prominent muscles there. "Or here?"

“There,” Sokka sighs in response to the firm touch on his shoulder blade, then pales sheepishly at his tone. “More... protected there, I think. I use the outside of my shoulder a lot.” He closes his eyes to stop himself from rolling them. He needs to stop talking so much.

Zuko digs his finger further into the muscles of Sokka's back in confirmation. "Good." He proceeds to knead his fingers into the spot, trailing against the path the muscles form.

Sokka only barely suppresses another breathy sigh. He doesn’t even really notice how he’s leaning into Zuko’s touch, but it feels good — being prepared, softened, unwound a little from the tension. It’s easy to forget what’s about to happen. He can feel his blood rushing, pooling low in him, and with no way to hide himself. It’s not a lot, or terribly immediate, but he almost hopes he’s repositioned soon so that it doesn’t get more obvious.

"Sit down on the bed," Zuko commands as if on cue, once the area he's been touching has warmed and reddened. Sokka can feel a tension in _his_ body too, like a spring ready to release. Zuko leads his thrall to the bed, and procures ropes from its side.

"I am going to bind you," he explains. "It is important that you lay still enough during the branding, so that we won't burn places that aren't meant to be burnt."

Sokka doesn't exactly know why Zuko’s explaining everything in such detail, when he could just tie him up and get it over with. Perhaps it is for his own peace of mind; like it is somehow more consensual, if Sokka gets to know everything that's going to happen before it does.

Or perhaps it is Zuko's way of torturing him further, building up expectation.

He follows Zuko’s leading hand to the bed and sits. He can’t bear to look at Zuko’s face, so he watches his hands intently as they slide around the ropes. There’s an urge to reach out and touch, to see if they’re really as soft as they look, but he doesn’t let curiosity get the better of him.

Instead, he nods. It’s honestly a relief, in a way — he isn’t exactly coming into this with full confidence in his ability to sit still while Zuko presses scalding metal to his skin. And Zuko’s voice is oddly soothing as he details exactly how he intends to restrain and torture him.

“Thank you, Zuko,” he says to his hands.

It's strangely simple as Zuko ties an asymmetrical cage around Sokka's torso. He's leaving one shoulder bare, with Sokka’s arms pulled towards the other shoulder on his front. The rope is not silk, not sensual. Instead it is linen, and the web of rope around his body is pleasantly tight and solid. Zuko moves him around with such confidence that Sokka allows himself to relinquish all control. Simply going where hand and rope lead him, like he has no will at all. Zuko ties the harness to the bedpost, forcing Sokka down on his front in order to follow the pull. Next he does Sokka's feet, tying them each to their own bed post in a spread eagle position.

By the time he’s bound completely, he’s also pressed solidly against the mattress. It should be terrifying... it _is_ terrifying... but it’s also strangely relaxing.

Zuko seems to consider his work for a moment, before saying, "Try to move your torso." 

His sheets are soft, though the bed itself feels stiff, and Sokka wriggles weakly against them. In another situation it might be incredibly enjoyable, and his body isn’t quite decided on how to react, somewhere between his debilitating horror and his growing arousal. He hates both.

“I can’t any more than that,” he mumbles into the fabric. Zuko seems to think that that’s still too much movement, because he ties two more ropes, each anchoring the harness to either side of Sokka.

The next thing Zuko does is roll up a coarse cotton fabric. "Open your mouth," he says, repeating the words from the last time, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He puts the thick, coarse roll of fabric into Sokka's mouth. "It is to bite down on. Do not spit it out until we are done."

 _Open your mouth_.

“O-oh-“ he says, and then he can’t say anything else as the roll of cloth is pressed between his teeth. He wishes he’d had water beforehand, far too late.

Next comes the brand. Zuko grabs the iron rod from where it lays across his dresser, and sits down on the bed beside Sokka. Thin, winding metal forms the intricate version of the Fire Lord's insignia. It's good, solid work, and Sokka would take a moment to admire it if the image didn’t fill him with such intense dread. 

"I will need some time to heat it up sufficiently. I want you to breathe in tact with me while I do so, Sokka."

He can barely move enough to nod, now, so he just breathes through his nose as Zuko does. He prickles with anticipation, barely able to watch through the corner of his eye as Zuko pulls in a long breath. When he breathes out his breath is bright, almost white fire against the black metal.

He’s struck again by how easily Zuko could destroy his body, and a gratefulness that he hasn’t.

It feels, now, like he just might, and he can’t watch anymore. He squeezes his eyes shut and listens to Zuko’s breath, following its time. He wishes he could squirm. He wants this to just happen and be over. He wants _anything_. He’d expected the fear to chase away the heat in his belly, but it’s just growing, and the heat radiating off of Zuko is already almost unbearable. He makes a soft little noise into the cloth roll — he might be begging Zuko to speed up, or to stop. He doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. The idea that he could request either of the Fire Lord would be laughable. That is, if he weren’t about to be permanently scarred.

 _Scarred to match his master_ , he thinks.

Zuko breathes in, Sokka breathes in. Zuko breathes out, Sokka breathes out.

And then there’s weight on the bed, and no warning, no time to process or react, because then there’s just _burning_. Zuko brings the brand down on Sokka's shoulder blade. Precise, careful, one sizzling, solid touch against skin and muscle before he draws it back again.

The first noise Sokka makes is a ragged gasp, followed by a short, uninhibited wail around the mouthful of cotton. He was hoping he could just grit his teeth and bear it, but, no, this is too much. He tries and fails to thrash.

The pressure is gone, but the stinging remains. He’s biting down so hard on cloth that his jaw aches, and he buries his warm face in the bed. He doesn’t want to move or speak, he wants to disappear. He lets an exhausted sob escape him into the sheets below.

He hears the brand get deposited in the unlit brassier, and then quiet. Zuko’s just _standing_ there, watching Sokka writhe and sob and bury his face in the sheets. The quiet lasts a long moment, before Zuko climbs back onto the bed, and sits beside where Sokka is shoving his face into tear-stained silk. Then he reaches out a hand, and carefully runs it through Sokka's damp hair.

He hadn’t even _realized_ he’d been crying until it slows to a tearful shudder at Zuko’s touch. When he’s certain he won’t openly weep, he slowly spits out his roll of cotton and turns his head to look at him.

“I’m... sorry...” he says weakly. The hot white burn has settled into a sour ache, and he doesn’t know what else to say. He just wants Zuko to keep petting his hair, to drift loosely in the pain and stop thinking. But he has to know first what Zuko needs of him.

"Shhh," Zuko attempts to soothe. "You did well Sokka. Just rest for a bit," he tells him, and keeps running his fingers against Sokka's scalp, periodically fixing tangles of wavy hair with careful fingers.

The quiet praise sounds so genuine that Sokka almost does begin to cry again. But instead he just lays there, focusing on the pressure of the ropes and the way Zuko’s fingers curl in his hair. He can’t avoid the encompassing presence of pain, but focusing on other parts of his body helps, where he can.

He can’t tell, in his state, whether he’s hard anymore. Probably not? But Zuko’s hands are soothing and warm and they help keep his mind off the image of his skin, raised and shiny in the morning light. He wishes Zuko would be this tender every time.

\---

Zuko isn't certain how long they stay like this. Brushing his fingers through Sokka's hair feels meditative in a different way than breathing with flames does, something calmer and softer than a subdued fire. He likes to think that he's helping, as Sokka's breath settles and his sobs fade away. It is probably wishful thinking, but it helps as a focus against the raw guilt gnawing at his insides. Every now and then his gaze goes over to the wound, shining red and terrible in the sun's light.

He wants to tell Sokka that it's over, that he's safe now, but Zuko knows burns. He knows that the pain's only just started, and that a burn of this caliber can hurt for months.

Gritting his teeth, Zuko pushes the guilt to the side. He concentrates on the moment until all that is left is pressure against his fingertips, and the sound of Sokka's breath in the quiet room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: Branding, burning, rope bondage
> 
> Come join the RP party here! https://discord.gg/6bsrzpp6CQ 18+ only OBVIOUSLY


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! This chapter needed a little extra editing, so it took a little while. Hopefully chapter 7 will come sooner! Not really a ton of CWs this time, besides discussion of what's already in the tags.
> 
> Have some fluff and some smut, and hang on tight for the next chapter ;)

Sokka didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He wakes up with a start, terrified that he’ll open his eyes and Zuko will be gone, or angry, or both. But he’s still sitting there, eyes nearly closed, hands in Sokka’s hair. The light in the bedroom hasn’t noticeably changed, so it must only have been for a couple minutes. It might not even have been obvious that he dozed off, so long as he didn’t snore.

He goes to move, but remembers too late that he’s still restrained. His skin screams awake in renewed pain. He hisses through his teeth and grunts weakly.

“Zuko?” He asks, finally, so quiet he barely hears himself. “Are you... okay?”

"Hmm?” Zuko sounds like he’s coming out of a daze. “Yes. Why would there be anything wrong with _me_?" He frowns, and eyes the ropes still pressing into Sokka's skin.

Where Sokka expects Zuko to untie him, he rises instead from the bed, to where he has a bowl of water and a washcloth ready.

The water is room temperature, but it still feels uncomfortably close to boiling when cloth touches damaged skin, as Zuko begins to clean Sokka’s new wound.

The ropes have loosened just enough in his rest that Sokka is able to squirm a little at the pain. He takes in a sharp breath and does his best to power through it, but a groan manages to escape his throat despite his best efforts.

“Nnhh... h-hurts...” He’s unsure he should be speaking at all, but at the moment all he wants is for Zuko to stop touching his searing shoulder.

"It will continue hurting for a time," Zuko explains neutrally. "But it's important to keep it clean. We do not want it to get infected."

Sokka takes a deep breath, not quite calmed, but reassured. Zuko seems to take it as encouragement to keep explaining, to keep helping Sokka understand -- and somewhere, though distantly, Sokka’s grateful for that.

"I am going to untie the ropes now. Just relax."

As Zuko loosens his ties, Sokka slowly moves his aching joints, returning blood flow to places long-stilled. He doesn’t want to move too much, and certainly doesn’t want to risk brushing his shoulder against anything. Zuko still sounds soothing and quiet.

It could almost slip his mind that this is the same man who hurt him.

His mind is still returning to him as Zuko drags a finger along the indented rope lines. The softness of Zuko’s hand is a welcome distraction from the throbbing heat of his new scar. He just wants to stop thinking about the pain, and the lines where rope crossed his body tight enough to leave marks are tucked into sensitive, intimate corners of his body.

It lights him up.

Whimpering turns to something just slightly other. “Nnhh...” he says again, but the inflection is different. Higher, and more welcoming.

"... Oh?"

He can’t see Zuko, but he can hear the smirk in his voice. He runs his hands up Sokka's back again, carefully avoiding the brand. Presses his fingers into where the rope marks feel closer to bruises — on his shoulders, sitting snugly against his neck; on the outer side of his upper arms; down his lower arms and over his wrists, where they were tied together. Zuko follows them all, pressing into them, into the muscle underneath.

Writhing under Zuko’s touch drags his body across smooth, luxurious textures, and he arches into it, pressing into the silken sheets more prominently now than before..

Zuko’s fingers press deep into his flesh, and it startles a series of pleasured gasps from him as they find the spots where he’s the sorest. For a second there’s a real terror, a fear that he might press into the burn, too. But his hands give that shoulder a wide berth.

"Are you enjoying that?" Zuko asks curiously.

“Yes—” he breathes in response. It feels so _wrong_ , admitting to it. He shouldn’t like this. It _hurts_. But he can focus on the bruises, on Zuko’s prodding fingers, and it dulls the pain of everything else.

Zuko continues, and somewhere in Sokka’s needy haze the touch becomes a full massage. It still hurts, too rough and possessive to be soothing, but Sokka can feel some of his tension bubbling out of him, escaping his mouth as gasps turn to moans. Zuko digs his fingers deep into any muscles he comes across, from Sokka's shoulders and down, testing out each muscle group and eliciting more sounds that Sokka can’t quite swallow. 

He reaches Sokka's hips, and Sokka raises them a bit, presenting himself. Zuko lingers there for just a moment, as though in thought, and the hesitation drives Sokka crazier than he’d like to admit. He forgets himself.

“ _Please…_ ”

And then he gasps again, burying his face in the sheets. They are still damp and cool from his tears. 

_He_ just requested something of _Zuko_.

“I-I’m sorry, no, I didn’t mean to... a-ahh...”

"Please what, Sokka?" Zuko cuts him off, no judgement in his tone. Just expectation. His hands linger on Sokka's thighs, and he rubs light circles on the insides with his thumbs.

Sokka turns his head to look at Zuko from the corner of his eye. His hips move on their own, pressing backward into Zuko’s palms.

“I... please...” he swallows, unsure how to phrase what he wants. What he needs. Why would Zuko just let him ask for it? He’s scared it might be a test that he’s about to fail. But he wants to keep those hands on him, and anything else he can get. “Please _use me._ ”

There is a moment of silence where Zuko doesn’t move. Then he reaches for something out of Sokka’s view, before straddling Sokka's thighs. "I am going to put this on the brand first, and then I'll reward you." 

_Is this punishment?_ Sokka tenses up for a moment. He’s about to thrash and cry, when Zuko’s fingers come down cold.

 _Oh_.

It still hurts to be touched at all, but the sting of heat is gone under the herbal chill. Sokka melts under his touch, skin prickling pleasantly. It won’t last forever, but what matters is that it feels good now.

“Mmmh... tha-ank you...”

The brand covered, Zuko’s fingers trace a thin line of cold down his back. He lingers there at Sokka's tailbone before he pulls away again. Sokka groans. He’d do anything Zuko wanted just to make his hands move again.

He would, technically, do anything Zuko wanted anyway, but need clouds his brain and makes it hard to think of anything else.

Then the cold is back unexpectedly as Zuko’s fingers fall back down, and he goes for the place he'd avoided before. Sokka nearly shouts as Zuko finds his entrance with two wax-covered fingers, and pushes both inside at once. The sound he’s making tapers into a shaky gasp, and he wiggles his hips in time with Zuko’s movements.

The icy tingle of the salve comes almost close to painful, but never quite crosses that tipping point even as Zuko starts to push in and out of the ring of muscle.

“Oh... _oh_ , Zuko, it’s... really good...”

Zuko doesn't push more than a few times into Sokka, before he once more removes his fingers and wipes the salve off on Sokka's hip. There’s an awful moment of emptiness. Sokka vaguely registers the sound of shifting fabric only a moment before Zuko pushes his cock into him without warning and suddenly Sokka is _so full._ He makes a strangled cry, and the salve pushed deep into him is a sensation he’s never felt anything like. Carefully he pushes himself up onto his elbows to keep himself still.

Zuko pushes all the way inside, settles there for a moment, and then gasps. He settles his forehead against Sokka's spine, breathing heavily as he slowly gets used to the feeling.

Sokka wants to rock himself back onto Zuko, to beg Zuko to fuck him and hurt him and claim him even more than he’s already done. But instead he just whines, clenching himself rhythmically around Zuko’s cock. His own cock is still pressed between his stomach and the firm mattress, begging for sensation and only receiving the little friction the silk affords.

Zuko shifts and gets his knees underneath him once more. Then he takes a solid grip on Sokka's hips, pulls out, and slams back in. He doesn’t bother to start on a slow pace as he rams into Sokka again and again. Sokka’s blood is roaring in his ears, fingers are digging into his skin as Zuko uses his grip to pull Sokka towards him again and again. Sokka leans himself backward into every thrust, his own heavy cock bouncing against the hot bedroom air when he lifts his hips higher.

There is no keeping his sounds in, not with Zuko ruthlessly fucking into him like this. Moans tumble out of his mouth and into the sheets, but the fabric does nothing to muffle him.

“Please, please _please_ , Zuko, you’re so big, _fuck—_ ” nothing in his mouth this time to stop him from babbling. He can feel Zuko’s heat inside him, and fingers digging into his developing bruises. Sokka crashes noisily backward onto him, wordlessly begging Zuko to fill him up.

His pace is steady and hard until it isn't, Zuko suddenly thrusting all the harder as his orgasm approaches. He’s pounded Sokka towards the mattress with every forward movement, but now he’s completely pressing him down into the silk as he seems to get close. Sokka follows his pace obediently, harder and harder until he feels Zuko spill into him, his cum hot against the cold salve, and then slowing to bring himself back down with small, shallow thrusts until Sokka’s entrance is slicked with cum. 

When Zuko finally pulls out and lays down beside him, there’s a twinge of frustration — Sokka’s desperately hard, and he wants Zuko’s hands on him again to bring him to his own peak. But there’s also a strange tenderness to it, to see the Fire Lord sated and quiet and just breathing.

Before he can think about it, he raises a sore arm and lays it on Zuko to rub wide, gentle circles into his chest.

"You may finish yourself, if you haven't already," Zuko mumbles, eyes already drifting shut. Sokka moans quietly, just at the permission.

“Thank you,” he manages to say, as he pushes himself up on his elbow again. His hand slides off Zuko’s chest and down his body. His cock is already slick with Zuko’s cum leaking down around it. He shudders at the concept, but doesn’t waste a second. He’s so needy and hard, he can’t stand the thought of teasing himself longer, so his motions are rough and desperate.

He’s doing his best not to disturb Zuko, who looks so restful where he’s lying. He has his eyes on Zuko’s face, and then his body, and then he’s replaying the ways Zuko has used his body to fuck himself and...

It’s all too much.

“Ah!!” He bucks his hips hard and tries to catch all his cum in his palm, to moderate success. He manages to spot the washcloth Zuko used on his shoulder, discarded at a corner of the bed, and cleans his hand enough that he won’t just smear a mess somewhere.

His body is heavy with pain and exhaustion, and he lays back down on his stomach next to Zuko to catch his breath and rest his eyes.

\---

Some time passes in the daze, and the next thing Sokka registers in Zuko shifting; turning his head and then propping himself up on an arm.

Immediately Sokka’s energy returns to him. He hadn’t quite fallen asleep, but when he heard Zuko’s gentle snoring he’d just... laid down and stayed there. From what he understands, a sleeping Zuko is a good Zuko. Who would he have been to disturb that?

Still, he’s embarrassed that he hadn’t cleaned up, or brought water or... whatever it was he was supposed to do after getting fucked but before getting dismissed. Peeling himself from the messy silk is a struggle, especially treating his shoulder so gingerly, but he manages.

He stands, and bows, and remembers with a blush that he’s fully nude. Oh well.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Zuko?”

Zuko rubs at his face with a grunt of pain before he sits up to squint at Sokka. "There should still be breakfast in the next room. Go have some of it. Put some to the side for me," he says, before he swings his feet off the bed. He goes over to his closet, and frowns at the selection.

Nodding and giving Zuko another glance to make sure it’s the right move, Sokka scoops his own robe up off the floor. He cinches it at the waist, but makes sure the top hangs loose and open enough that it doesn’t agitate his new burn. It’s uncomfortable, but the salve is cool on his skin, and provides a bit of barrier. 

As promised there’s a tray of breakfast and a pot of tea that Sokka hadn’t noticed on coming in. He hopes he simply hadn’t noticed it, at least, rather than another servant having brought it in while he was in Zuko’s bedroom. The tea is still suspiciously hot, but... maybe it was just very hot to begin with.

If the palace had any doubts about Zuko making use of his slave, this should have settled them.

He lingers over the table and scans the food. Rice, eggs, spicy natto... and Zuko has asked Sokka to eat before himself? This... definitely must be a test. He first pours the tea, Zuko’s before his own. Then, cautiously, he sits at the table.

Zuko probably won’t miss the rice? He scoops a rather large portion onto a separate dish for himself, and a small amount of omelette as well.

He doesn’t eat quite yet, though, his eyes locked firmly on Zuko, who sits down at the table across from him. He has to make sure he’s doing this right.

"Eat," Zuko orders over his cradled cup of tea, once he notices that Sokka hasn't started. 

“R-right. Yes.” Sokka drops his eyes and raises the first bite to his lips. _Spirits_ , he’ll never get used to how good the food is here. He breathes a quiet hum of pleasure.

He eats in silence for a while, waiting for Zuko to say anything. He looks so tired, and Sokka wishes he could do something to perk him up. But at least he looks content, and Sokka smiles at that.

Zuko finishes the cup of tea before starting on breakfast. He goes for fish and plain rice, and only glances up at Sokka once he’s had a few bites.

"We are going to a party in three days," he tells him, apropos of nothing. "I have a task for you, while we are there."

Even waiting for Zuko’s voice, Sokka jumps a little at the sound. His back goes pin-straight, and his hands come down gently on the table on either side of his plate. Passive and attentive. He glances up at Zuko’s mouth, to indicate that he’s listening. He doesn’t speak, just waits.

A few more bites of the fish, and Zuko continues. "There will be others who hold the same kind of position as you there. I would like for you to befriend them. I would also like for you to figure out their loyalties, without letting on that this is what you're attempting to do." Zuko lets his gaze slide over to Sokka again. "Do you think you'll be able to do that? If not, it is better if you let me know now. This is not a move I want known to the wrong people."

Zuko puts down his bowl, while continuing to look at Sokka as though searching for something.

It’s. A lot to process. Sokka’s instincts swing him toward humor, and he wants to crack a joke to lighten the odd mood Zuko’s bringing to the table. _Testing to see if I’m a good spy?_ But, no, of course he doesn’t say it. There’s still a small smirk that tugs at his mouth, but Sokka couldn’t say whether it’s readable.

“Yes, I can do that.” He takes a contemplative sip of tea. “I won’t know until I’m there, how much information I’ll be able to get for you... but I can at least get by without making your intentions known.”

Something else tugs at Sokka, too. When he says there will be others in Sokka’s position, does he just mean general slaves? Or branded ones? Favorites? Or...

What kind of party, exactly, is he being taken to?

Zuko shakes his head.

"I do not have need of information right now. I just need the contacts. However, I will never be able to inspire loyalty in servants as anything other than their Fire Lord. There will always be a distance there. You, however, have the opportunity to befriend them. Become a part of their circle, and the flow of information that allows for."

A few seconds’ pause, a moment of hesitation… but then he continues.

"These parties are a crude excuse for a social gathering. I'd rather not participate in their debasement, but as the situation stands I have little choice in the matter."

Sokka pictures music and alcohol and dancing, like the celebrations of his tribe. No, that definitely doesn’t seem like Zuko’s scene. He nods in understanding.

“Right. I can... I can do that. Anything you need.”

He finishes his breakfast, feeling much less lethargic with food in his belly. He hopes Zuko feels the same. “Would you like more tea?”

Zuko glances up from where his gaze drifted off for a moment. "Hmm? Yes. Thank you," he says. His gaze stays on Sokka as the servant pours him another cup of tea. "You may say whatever you need to say to gain loyalty at that party," he adds suddenly. "Of course, do not overdo it, or it would seem insincere. But if the other servants are setting a precedent, I will allow for you to... _badtalk_ me, within certain limits."

The thought is almost... scandalizing. To badmouth his master, with other servants? He’s barely talked about Zuko with his bunkmates, let alone strangers.

Let alone with Zuko there.

He swallows. “I... I won’t overdo it. I promise. Is there anything, uh, off limits?”

"Keep it general. Try not to mention anything confidential. They are as likely to be spies for _their_ masters, after all."

With a sigh, Zuko finishes the rest of his tea.

"You may join me in the baths, if you wish. I would like things cleaned up here first however. You can join me when you're done."

The chambers _are_ something of a mess. The smell of the burn salve permeates the air, and Sokka knows there was more than a little spill on the bed sheets. Even so, it shouldn't take him too long to join.

If he wants to, that is. Zuko _had_ given him a choice.

His master gets up from the table, and goes for the chamber entrance. "Don't take too long," he says as he walks out.

The invitation makes his stomach flip. He’s only been in the servant baths before. If the dissonance between those and Zuko’s is anything like that of their respective bedrooms... 

Sokka hops up from the table, hopefully not looking terribly eager. He starts there, piling dishes back onto the tray and only pausing briefly to smile at how much Zuko had managed to eat. He collects a cloth from the chamber closet, as well as new sheets for the bed, and gives the table a thorough wipe down.

Next is the bedroom. He knows to carry matches, in case his master doesn’t want to put in the effort to bend, and he lights a candle to chase away lingering smells. He opens the window, too, letting fresh air and late-morning light spill into the room.

Old sheets go in a basket, along with the various cloths they’d used, and Zuko’s discarded set of robes. Pillowcases and blanket covers, too — they’ll need to be replaced to match the set he’s pulled out, anyway.

When the bed is remade sharply, all that’s left is the brand. His giddiness takes a sudden turn toward nausea as he picks it up to examine it.

Zuko’s insignia is common knowledge, and quite familiar, but he studies the design again now with new interest. This is the mark still settling into his skin, a permanent claim. He laughs to fight the bile down — it looks just slightly uncanny mirrored like that. It’s long since gone cold.

He wipes it down with care, trying not to imagine his own burnt skin stuck to it like meat to a griddle. It goes back where it started, next to the brassier, gleaming like anything in the sunlight.

And then it’s done. He blows the candle out, shuts the window again, and scoops up what needs to be taken out. He balances the hamper and tray in one arm as well as he can, avoiding putting too much weight on his stinging shoulder. He’ll hit the laundry rooms, then the main kitchen. Then back to the baths. Back to Zuko’s side.

It isn’t long before Sokka stands at the dark wooden door to the royal baths. He doesn’t want to admit how quickly he’d speedwalked the halls. Hopefully Zuko wouldn’t put much thought to it.

He knocks. Then, knowing that there are other servants about and not wanting to be mistaken, he calls in quietly; “Fire Lord Zuko, may I enter?”

"Yes," Zuko calls from within the chamber.

It takes a moment as Sokka enters to spot Zuko in the steam. He’s deeper in the tub than Sokka expected, and for a second his dark hair looks like a silk scarf floating in the hot water. Sokka realizes he hasn’t yet seen Zuko with his hair down like this. It’s even longer than he’d assumed.

 _He’s beautiful_ , he thinks. And then he feels a little sick for thinking it.   
The lamps encircling the lavish bath are already lit, the flickering glow illuminating the evaporated water that hangs in the air.

Sokka kneels at the edge of the stone tub and breathes in the steam. There must be herbs or flowers hiding somewhere in the humid room, because he’s hit with a green scent he doesn’t quite recognize.

He’s suddenly not sure what he’s supposed to be doing here. Getting in? Or attending to Zuko from outside? Better not to assume. “What can I do for you?” He does mean to say it quietly, but among the pool’s gentle sloshing and muffled by the steam, it sounds deeply intimate. Not sexual, just soft.

"Just.. Just get in," Zuko says, oddly hesitant.

Sokka nods, and stands. He very gently slides his robe off his body — he’s naked underneath, having abandoned his underclothes with the laundry. He dips a toe in, and it isn’t quite so hot as he feared, so he slides his legs into the water.

He finds a ledge and lowers himself halfway into the pool, extremely cautious that he doesn’t let the warm water touch his burn. He does let out an indulgent sigh, closing his eyes for a second in enjoyment. “Oh... _wow_...”

The only thing that’s keeping him from collapsing into the water like a jelly-squid, he thinks, is his shoulder. Even having Zuko here wouldn’t keep him poised.

Oh, that probably isn’t true. But he does imagine slipping into the water and floating there forever, never surfacing again.

Zuko isn’t speaking, and Sokka peeks one eye open to check that he’s not sitting there expecting something of Sokka. But he’s just looking at him, looking... humored? Happy? It’s hard to tell in the low light, and Zuko has a hand raised that covers some of his expression. Sokka smiles on instinct, though.

“Would you like any help? I could wash your hair.” It’s bold, and Sokka knows it. But it’s also something that could reasonably be within his job. It’s probably okay to offer. And he’d really like to touch the long, soft strands that billow out from Zuko in a black halo around him.

Zuko pauses like he’s considering it, but only for a second. “Yes,” he answers, and Sokka hums happily.

There are glass bottles of soaps and oils laid out around the tub, and he’s grateful now more than ever that Torrin walked him through the expected luxuries of washing. He leans carefully to take one, and gives it a preliminary sniff. It smells very lightly of citrus and clove, not overwhelming. It’s a good, safe place to start.

He scoots a little closer to Zuko, who’s watching Sokka with a hint of wariness, but the ledge ends before he can reach him. He doesn’t want to ask Zuko to come closer... doesn’t want to sound like he’s the one giving orders. So he waits, and gives another warm smile.

Zuko frowns, and opens his mouth, then seems to realize what’s stopped his slave. He acquiesces, moving smoothly through the hot water to take a place beside Sokka, who experimentally runs a hand through his hair once Zuko settles in. It’s so soft... Sokka sighs again just combing his fingers through it. 

The thrall takes a small wooden cup from where it sits with the soaps, and pours a little over Zuko’s head, careful that it falls back and away from his eyes, and gathers it up gently into his free hand. “Does that feel okay?”

"... Yeah," Zuko responds, completely frozen where he sits. He shudders, as another cup of water runs over his head.

Zuko sounds genuinely blissful. Sokka has a terrible urge to lean down and kiss his head, where his topknot would sit, which he suppresses. It’s something someone might do, helping a loved one wash back home... just a leftover of his old life. Nothing else.

For a while longer Sokka just continues like that, wetting the hair and combing through it. There’s not a single tangle to be found. But he can’t just keep playing with it forever.

The soap is poured generously and worked it into Zuko’s hair, up and through until he’s lightly massaging it into his scalp. He’s hesitant on the left, but he still strokes the hair in long, lazy motions, working it in without putting pressure on where Zuko’s scar creeps into his hairline. Zuko’s tenseness seems to slowly fall away, and Sokka watches his eyes flutter closed.

He remembers how nice it’s been to hear Zuko narrate what he’s doing to Sokka. He could try that? See if it has a similar reaction the other way around? “Alright, I’m going to rinse this out now, okay?”

When Sokka speaks, it’s like Zuko gets pulled out of the daze all at once. He flinches, and turns around, looking at Sokka with confusion. "What?" he asks, and then after another moment, "Oh, right. Yes, go ahead," 

Ah, he hadn’t meant to disturb him. But the way Zuko’s temperature rises in response is endearing… Should a slave be endeared by his master? Maybe not. But he seems so human like this, naked and calmed at Sokka’s feet. Sokka almost laughs at the reversal. A brief image of his fist in Zuko’s hair —

 _No_. He forces it down fast. Instead he gently guides Zuko to face forward again and runs a gentle pour of water through his hair.

“There,” he says lightly. “Any oils? Or I could put it up for you?” He keeps swirling his fingers through Zuko’s hair, soft as the water around them. Every so often his hands meet Zuko’s shoulders beneath the surface, and he pets them with a light pressure before returning to feathery black strands.

After a moment of thought, Zuko nods. "Up," he agrees, and relaxes again as Sokka continues to tend to his hair. Sokka smiles. Zuko’s discarded clothes are within reach, and the cloth band that keeps his hair in place is among them. 

“How would you like it? Your usual style?” He takes his time, petting Zuko’s head and smoothing out any hairs that have strayed. “Or I could braid it, if you like.”

He imagines Zuko would look _heartbreakingly_ handsome, with his hair done up in traditional Water Tribe braids. But he knows he would also look significantly out of fashion, and it would likely not actually be a good political or social move. He’s seen a braid or two in the Fire Nation, too, high and tight on the head, that he could try recreating. It’s a nice image as well, though it doesn’t sit so heavily in his chest.

"The usual," Zuko responds, and Sokka nods. It was foolish to suggest otherwise, and he’s glad that Zuko took it so lightly.

He pulls the wet hair up, especially careful now not to tug on it, and arranges it in a comfortably tight topknot. He’s happy he’s practiced it before. It might fall apart a little over the rest of the day, being put up wet like this, but at least it’s out of his face. And Sokka can always offer to redo it when they’re dry and clothed again.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks. He doesn’t know what else there is to do, necessarily, but still he hopes there’s something. Just for an excuse to stay.

"Dry me off," Zuko orders as he starts to get out of the water.

It’s strange... the sudden shift in demeanor almost makes Sokka laugh. It doesn’t, of course. But it takes the mood somewhere lighter, somehow, and snaps Sokka out of weird, tender feelings.

“Yes, Sir,” he says. The inflection is correct, it’s submissive and demure. But privately, internally, it’s almost like he’s joking back.

He carefully crawls out after Zuko and reaches for the towel. He’s still dripping wet, but he towels Zuko down. Arms, chest, back, butt, legs... he realizes he hasn’t gotten the chance yet to really take in how Zuko looks unclothed. He’s quite the sight, to say the least.

By the time he finishes toweling Zuko off he’s largely dripped dry in the hot air. But he wrings some bathwater out of his wet, wavy hair and combs out a few tangles with his fingers.

Zuko glances over at where Sokka is drying his hair.

"Robe," he says. That does startle him a little. He’s developing a reflex when Zuko uses that voice, where his spine straightens and his eyes crash to the floor.

“Right. Of course. Sorry, sir.” He picks up the neatly stacked robe and lets it tumble open. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been anything but flawless — no seams where it was folded.

He circles around Zuko, pulling it over one arm, and then the other. As soon as he ties the belt around Zuko’s waist, he feels remarkably naked in comparison.

Looking down at the knot Sokka's tied, Zuko gives a tiny nod of approval. Sokka sighs in quiet relief. It's tied correctly. Good.

"You may have the rest of the day off." The Fire Lord says, eyes resting on Sokka for a moment. "You must also make sure to clean your brand every day. And put the salve on afterwards."

Sokka knows. But he’s glad that Zuko isn't going to risk his servant getting sick. Or perhaps he just isn’t going to risk the brand scarring badly, which would make it useless.

“Thank you, Zuko, I will,” he says clearly, bowing so that his face is angled straight at the floor. “Shall I come to you tomorrow? Or wait for you to send for me?” He doesn’t like the wording in his mouth, but Torrin has told him that this is how to ask, when uncertain. And Zuko leaves him so frequently uncertain, about so much. He doesn’t lift his head yet.

After a moment, Zuko replies. "Come back tomorrow morning. We have some things we should be going over," he says. Then he starts going for the door.

Happy with the answer, Sokka finally looks up in time to watch Zuko go. He wants to say something... maybe thank you? But the words don’t come fast enough before he’s alone in the room.

He towels off just a little better, and dresses quickly. He does a quick scan of the room and grabs everything that needs to be taken away to laundry.

And then his day is over. Zuko said _rest of the day off_ , and he isn’t about to argue. 

Most of the rest of the day is spent in his bunk, alternating between crying and applying salve and fitful, fruitless naps on his stomach.


End file.
